Things Left Unsaid
by mswainwright
Summary: Started as a one-shot, but now this became a story to fill in the gaping holes and missing dialogue in the storyline of Sybil/Branson in DA2. Begins ep1 & ends when the holes are plugged. I don't own these characters, but am just inspired by them. Enjoy!
1. What to Say?

_I've been watching DA2. Too much has been left out for many of the characters, so this fills in one gap of many in the S/B storyline. Probably a one-shot, but may be inspired to fill in other gaping holes in the plot. Comments, thoughts, rants always welcome. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 1 – What to Say?<p>

_Downton Abbey 1916_

Just like he did most days Branson finished his tea then put on his jacket before he headed out to attend to his morning duties. He did up the brass buttons and hooked the collar. This morning for some reason the collar felt tight, his finger tugged at the thick fabric to loosen it up. He shrugged his shoulders. He couldn't tell if it was the outcome of putting on weight—Mrs. Patmore thought he could use a few extra pounds for the forthcoming winter—or whether it was the lump in his throat at the prospect of what he needed to say later today. He was pretty sure it was the latter, but such physical discomfort did not aid in mustering the wherewithal to speak his mind or rather confess the feelings he harbored in his heart.

She was the daughter of the man who employed him. But more importantly she was the daughter of a hereditary peer of England. She was destined to marry within her social rank and not eke out a difficult life with an Irish working-class chauffeur. To chose him she would have to forsake all that she knew. He was asking a lot. But today he was going to risk it all—she was worth it he figured. _How would she react, what would she say?_ He couldn't be sure. If her answer was "yes," then his intuition was correct. Deep down he knew she was as much in love with him as he was with her. She had to be. He could see it in her eyes whenever they talked about politics or the war or women's rights. The simmering passion wasn't just for her emergent radical views, he could detect something else, but perhaps she wasn't aware of it just yet. He couldn't be sure unless he asked. He would just have to trust her. If her answer was "no," and it could be that he was wrong, then he'd pack up and leave before she finished her training and returned home to Downton. Better quit, he wagered, than get sacked. In that case, he could only hope that she would be more flattered than offended and at least allow him to secure a reference from her father in order that he may find another situation elsewhere. He knew her well enough to value her fair-mindedness—it was one of the many things he found attractive about her.

_Your mind's all over the place. You need to concentrate. Focus, it won't be long_. _Think about what to say and how to say it_, he reminded himself. He took a deep breath and walked into the garage to start the motorcar.

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><p><em>Today's the day she's leaving Downton<em>, he pondered as he cranked the engine of the dark blue Renault.

When he had heard from the always petulant Miss O'Brien that "Lady Sybil was going to go to nurse's training; mind you it's caused quite a stir between his Lordship and her Ladyship; next she'll be wanting to make the beds and we'll all be out of a job," he was pleased that she'd followed through with the conversation they had a few weeks earlier as he drove her back from Ripon on an errand for her grandmother.

"The world is in an upheaval, so much is happening out there," she had observed from the backseat. And she was stuck at Downton as "a lady in waiting, but waiting for whom" she wondered aloud. All of the young men who had regaled her that first London season were being slaughtered like lambs on the battlefields of Europe. With the women's suffrage movement on hiatus during the war, her involvement with various activities associated with that cause had ceased. Sitting at home knitting socks for soldiers just wasn't enough. She felt like she needed to do something more, but she didn't know what. She told him that she admired what her cousin Isobel had done in nursing and that it was a skill in high demand in light of the war casualties streaming into all parts of the country. She had a distant notion that perhaps she could train in that vocation. A while back Cousin Isobel—never afraid to mow down institutional barriers to follow her beliefs—had suggested an eight-week intensive training program. At the Cottage Hospital now turned into a war hospital for local wounded officers, Dr. Clarkson was in desperate need of well-trained nurses from wherever he could get them. "Why not from Downton," she asked him. But she suspected, no she absolutely knew that her mother would want her to stay at Downton and that her father would forbid it. She was after all the daughter of an Earl, not the daughter of a middle-class physician from Manchester like her cousin. She felt caged and desperately needed to escape her complacency and predicament.

He said that may all be true about her current circumstances, but the war was changing everything. "Be persistent, follow your beliefs. Women should be able to work and to contribute to the war effort as they see fit or even better support the movement for peace. Was this not central to the cause for women's rights?" he asked. "Anyway you're not like other women," he candidly told her—perhaps revealing too much about his true feelings toward her.

"Aren't I—in what way am I different? Honestly I feel I know so little of the world, I don't know who I am or what I'm meant to do," she sighed heavily and fiddled with her cloche in her lap.

_How should he say this?_ Just be honest he thought—their familiarity had grown immensely since they first met almost three years ago and these types of conversations were not unusual when they found themselves alone together. "Well," he began, "you've never been afraid to challenge conventions. You've stood up for what you believe in, so why stop now?"

She looked away to the landscape passing by, absorbed his sage advice, and nodded affirmatively—"Quite right…as always!" He looked back and she smiled warmly in return. He could sense her newfound confidence had already begun to lift her spirits. She said that she would ask her parents the next day if she could go for nurses training in York. "Thank you Branson, I can always count on you."

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><p>For his first trip, he brought the Dowager Countess up to the house because she wanted to wish her granddaughter well. Much to his surprise, Anna had informed him that the family matriarch actually supported her granddaughter's aspirations. He was glad that she had someone from the family in her corner in order to make her parents and sisters realize how important it was for her to leave her comfortable life at Downton and take this first step out into the world. It would be a big adjustment to be sure, but the fact that she wanted a change and to make a contribution, gave him hope.<p>

His second trip for the day would be to drive Lady Sybil down to York. William brought out her luggage. Only two bags, he noticed—far fewer than when the family travelled to London for the season. He suspected she was beginning to comprehend what a life of work entailed and being able to change three times a day would not be in the offing. Her training would be demanding, but she seemed eager to get started.

Following her cousin's suggestion, she had already spent sometime earlier in the week in Downton's kitchen learning the basics of how to prepare tea and cook. From what he observed and heard from the kitchen maids, she was initially completely inept at everything, but mastered her tasks very quickly. He wasn't shocked by her perseverance or acuity—she had already been a quick study of the women's suffrage movement. One afternoon, he was present when she took her first cake out of the oven. It was a surprise for her mother. Mrs. Patmore cautioned her to be weary of the hot oven, but she was fearless in her desire to complete her task. Her face lit up with great joy when she took her rather lopsided confection out of the hot oven. She glowed with her accomplishment of having done something well. That night everyone was abuzz in the servant's hall at how seriously Lady Sybil took her work in the kitchen. They never could have imagined witnessing the daughter of the Earl of Grantham fetching water for a kettle or better yet mixing a bowl of cake batter. Mr. Carson, however, still didn't take well to the notion of Lady Sybil's latest ambition. "Its just not done, never in my day would one find the daughter of nobility rattling pots," the butler scoffed at this latest sign that things were changing inside the house and outside in the world beyond its gates.

He took her bags from William and strapped them to the back of the motorcar. Dressed in a dark blue suit she eventually came out of the house with her sisters and mother. She bid them farewell. Ready to serve—as was his job—he stood at attention by the car door and waited for her to enter. As he climbed into the front he glanced into the backseat and saw her wipe a tear away. This would be a difficult departure for her, but he also knew it would be a difficult revelation he would have to make. _Better now than never_. And he put the car in gear and sped away from Downton.

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><p>He could feel her sense of loss—that she was leaving an important part of her life behind. They both had much to consider as they darted along the road and through the fall countryside. They rode in silence for most of the ninety-minute trip. <em>Should he say something now<em> he wondered?

These trips were often a time where they shared their ambitions and discussed their political beliefs. He would like to think that he had helped her see that a new society could be forged if people from all ranks were willing to join the cause. He never thought it impertinent that he should have these conversations with his employer's daughter, she seemed eager to know more and clearly had very strong opinions of her own. They didn't always agree. Sometimes he thought he pushed the abolishment of the class system rhetoric a bit too far. But he liked that she was willing to stand her ground, especially since he hated losing a debate to anyone—even to her.

Neither revealed the content of these interactions to others. Their exchanges were kept to themselves, since no one upstairs or downstairs would understand the nature of their unusual bond. In the household and to the world, she was his "social better." She was the "lady" and he was the "chauffeur." But what in the end made her or her family better than anyone else—a legacy of inherited wealth that concentrated land and resources in the hands of the few at the expense of the many? Granted, her father and family were extraordinarily fair and made sure that all those in their employ and under their stewardship were well taken care of. But that did not change the reigning belief that those who were by birth higher up on the social hierarchy were naturally nobler than those below them. Not holding to such notions, both found the ideals and practices of social rank to be outdated. A deep abiding respect emerged between them precisely because neither was better than the other—each had virtues and flaws. They met on a plane of equality or at least in their little world that was how they saw it and treated one another accordingly. She valued their friendship as did he, but how deeply she cared for him would be tested when he confessed the depth of his own feelings.

"How was your cake? It looked I must confess: a bit lopsided," he finally spoke up—trying to take her mind off leaving home. "I guess I mean did it taste good?"

"Are you implying it was unsightly and tasted awful," she replied looking up and teasing him for his obviously awkward question about her culinary excursion.

"No I meant nothing of the sort. Did her Ladyship enjoy your big accomplishment?"

"I think she did, I hope she did," she sighed. "I know I'm not going to be making a plum pudding any time soon, but I tried. I want to do things for myself." Then she piped up, "what do you care about how my cake tasted, you don't like cake anyway!"

He chuckled to himself that she remembered that story from his childhood, "so you remembered that."

"I remember many things. Your having to eat an entire plate of your aunt's bone dry cake that tasted like sand, because it was your mother's birthday surprise and you didn't want to spoil it for her must have been a real character building experience for you," she giggled and leaned forward to see his response.

"Oh you think that made me the man I am?" he turned and smiled glad that he could make her laugh and ease her anxiety. "And there are many things that build character, like baking your first cake."

"It's a step, although I'm not sure everyone was behind me," she reflected on her new trajectory.

"Indeed, as you may be aware Mr. Carson wasn't too keen on your turn in the kitchen."

"Did I upset things downstairs that much?"

"You know Mr. Carson. He feels there's an order to things that should never be disturbed. You shook up a number of those things shall we say."

"I certainly didn't mean to."

"Oh, he'll recover. He's going, no we're all going to have to get used to a new world. Everybody will most likely find themselves someplace different than where they were before the war don't you think?" he said subtly implying their circumstances in his question.

Before she could say anything else he pulled the car in front of the hospital's entrance. She stepped out and told him she'd meet him inside. He unstrapped her bags and walked into a large hall with high vaulted ceilings. Sybil talked to a woman in a blue nurses uniform who sat officiously behind a long desk. The nurse pointed toward a large wooden door at the other end of the room. Once finished, she turned around and told him that her lodgings were in the North wing. He could take her as far as that entrance.

As the passed through the wooden doors they entered into a large courtyard. Injured soldiers—some missing arms, others missing legs—exercised on the lawn. Suddenly for both of them the war was no longer a headline or a letter about a friend, its toll was palpably visible. It made them both consider for an instant what was really important in life.

They turned into the north wing's entrance hallway. He placed her bags down on the cold stone ground. She faced him and told him how hard it would be to leave her last link to home. He took of his hat and finally said what was in his heart.

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><p><em>Curious if any other gaping holes in the story are worth filling in? Trust me there seem to be many on this ship.<em>


	2. Did He Really Say That?

_OK managed to be inspired by the comments* to do a response to What to Say? Not sure what's next, but the apology idea from TheSingingGirl and ScarletAngelww is a good one. Thanks for the comments, queries, suggestions. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 2 – Did He Really Say That?<p>

Her lower back and shoulders ached when she stretched in the morning. She had bruised her knuckles scrubbing a stone basin. She had made a mess of folding the sheets for the south ward, so clumsy were here efforts that the head nurse thought she was daft—joking that perhaps she'd never made a bed before (little did the nurse know that that was in fact true). Despite it all, for the first time Sybil felt useful. She had helped her mother with her charity causes, including the various war efforts like raising monies for orphaned children in France and Belgium. And she had even marshaled her resources to aid the former housemaid Gwen in her quest to become a secretary. But this felt very different and her body told the tale. In her mind, she did not wish to romanticize physical labor—constantly on call, always moving about, having to yield to the rules of hierarchies and protocols. She remembered that for someone like Downton's housemaid Anna it was her daily mode of existence, one that she couldn't readily escape even if she wanted to. Marriage would be Anna's only route out of service—something Sybil hoped would change with women now working in men's jobs during the war. Women needed to be independent, they deserved more freedoms. This sense of being useful to others was a new feeling for her, she was experiencing many new feelings she realized in the few days since she had left Downton.

She missed home, not so much the large sprawling estate, the formal dinners, or ornate trappings that decorated the public rooms. But she did miss her family, seeing her mother and father every morning at breakfast, hearing what her sisters were arguing about. She missed Anna and Mr. Carson about the house. They were all that had been familiar and they animated her world at Downton. York and this big hospital was someplace new, foreign—although everyone had been welcoming. The teaching nurses were relieved to have as many trainees as they could accept. With the big offensives of the summer and fall in full swing, the number of wounded soldiers had climbed exponentially. All the women in medical service she met were dedicated to their duties. No one cared where she was from (especially that she was the daughter of an Earl). What mattered the most was that she was there in her standard grey uniform and white apron to aid the effort in caring for the wounded. She liked that equalizing effect immensely.

She soon realized that she didn't miss the comforts of Downton at all, although the food in the dining hall was several notches below Mrs. Patmore's fine cuisine. So far she had been much too busy learning about bandages, proper ways to move a patient, keeping track of the various ranks of soldiers to even care about when, what, and with whom she ate.

She also didn't miss the constricted clothing she typically wore during the day or especially the extravagant gowns she donned in the evening for family dinners. She recalled that her sisters had insisted that she pack an evening dress —it still lie at the bottom of her luggage, neatly folded in its tissue wrapper. Her nurses uniform had its buttons in the front, so that she didn't require assistance getting dressed. And its soft lightweight fabric, generous sleeves and loose bodice gave her body the freedom to perform with ease the various tasks she was learning.

She slept on a small metal bed with a lumpy mattress. Her roommate was a young woman, the daughter of a shop owner, from a nearby town. Everyday the trainees awoke at half past five in the morning and retired after eleven in the evening. This would be her demanding routine until she left seven weeks from now. She had so much to absorb about nursing that thoughts of home had been few and far between. Downton seemed a distant memory. However during the day, usually in the middle of one many her duties, her mind would drift to thoughts of Branson.

_He wanted spend every waking minute making me happy?_ Why say that to her? That impassioned statement seemed a bit farfetched for someone who barely knew her, certainly not to the degree that Mary or Edith knew her. It was a bit unnerving. She didn't know what to say when he told her to _"bet on him" _as she mulled over again and again his exact words. That day her mind was already swirling in many different eddies trying to comprehend what was happening in her life, what she had left behind at Downton and what she was about to encounter in York. And then he drops this in her lap. _How could he do something so unfeeling? _She furrowed her brow in annoyance as she recalled the incident. "Something wrong with the bottles of iodine Nurse Crawley?" inquired the nurse in charge of the dispensary. "No Nurse Marsden, I am almost through my count." She shook her head and went back to her inventory. She would not allow this to distract her.

_Was he really asking her to marry him?_ It didn't matter who had made the proposal, she wasn't sure she wanted to marry anyone just now, next year or ever. She liked the thought of being an emancipated woman modeled after the radical suffragettes. Whatever he wanted from her, she would never be able to hurt her parents with the news that she was going to spend her life with someone her family didn't approve—considering anything more was an exercise in futility she determined.

_He's in love with me, but how could that be?_ In spite his dismissal of her response as being condescending, she was indeed flattered, as she had earnestly told him. No one had ever shared something so personal or more importantly so passionate to her. The young men at her first season in London had flirted with her, but no one had ever been so forward as to express his undying love to her. She had never really seen herself as an object of any man's desire. She imagined he sought to cultivate an emotional bond, which would quite naturally lead to a more intimate physical bond. She had to admit it was sort of thrilling to be wanted in that fashion, physically tingling in a surprising way. So this is why all those romantic sonnets had been penned. CLAAAANK! The sound on metal hitting the hard stone floor startled her out of her daydream. She had dropped a metal pan in a storeroom. She placed it back on the shelf. She took a deep breath. She had to stop dwelling on this and the myriad of questions that arose from his revelation to her the day she left home. She decided to train her mind on learning the minutiae of her tutorials.

At night before she would fall to sleep, she tried to pinpoint the beginnings of when she first noticed his attraction to her. Mary had told her that he seemed unusually concerned after she had been knocked unconscious at the regretful bye-election brawl. That evening she had stood her ground against her father and circumvented her reckless actions from getting him dismissed. She was truly sorry that she had jeopardized his position in the household. She was grateful that her friend—which is how she thought of him—was concerned about her wellbeing. She thought nothing of it until he gently took her hand during the summer garden party. She took such physical contact as a sign of his goodwill toward her accomplishment in helping Gwen, but she also intuited that perhaps the gesture meant something more to him.

Up to now they could speak candidly and openly in the motorcar if they were on trips by themselves. And on occasion when she was out for a walk she would pass by the garage to discuss the new developments in the women's suffrage movement, political upheavals elsewhere in the world, and now the war. She liked to engage his opinions, even though she did not agree with them all. She was willing to let him know when she harbored contrary positions. She enjoyed their debates. At Christmas last year, she purchased a translation of the writings of Kroptkin and discreetly handed it to him at the household celebration. He had coincidentally wrapped an edition of _The Suffragette _to give to her. Both were delighted upon opening their gifts. "How ever did you know I wanted to read this?" he asked her. She grinned and told him she knew revolutionary thoughts were in the air. He smiled warmly and thanked her for the thoughtful gift. And in turn she appreciated that he considered her mature enough to study the radical ideas of most controversial of the Pankhursts. She realized then that their respect was mutual. His was a friendship that she valued, even though she knew her family and many down below would not understand or condone such intimacy. She missed his camaraderie and familiarity.

His proposal, her feelings, what it all meant was all too complicated to comprehend. She needed to get through her training. Hopefully when she returned to Downton three weeks from now this awkward situation would be an unfortunate misunderstanding between them. Ideally things would return to the way they had been before she departed. She was determined to let him know that he had not alienated her friendship and that she still had the utmost respect for his beliefs.

Then one day in her sixth week, she attended a young officer who had been badly wounded in his chest by shrapnel. When the officer awoke from his delirium, she noticed his eyes possessed the same deep blue cast like those of Branson's. Too weak to sit up the officer asked if she would write a letter to his beloved wife for him, he drifted off to sleep before she could finish. When she returned the next day to complete the letter, she found someone else in his bed. Asking the head nurse where the officer had gone, she was informed that he had unfortunately succumbed to his wounds overnight. As she went about the rest of her morning duties, an overwhelming sense of sadness took hold of her. More than anything she mourned the loss of love. As she remembered the dying soldier's eyes, she saw Branson's. She recalled the passion alight in his eyes the day he revealed the depth of his admiration for her. She hoped her polite rebuff of his affections had not hurt him or pushed him away. _What if he decided to leave for a position elsewhere while she was in York?_ She would most certainly miss his presence at Downton. She stopped in the cold hallway and stared out into the barren courtyard. _What if he's called up to serve?_ _Would he end up as a wounded soldier in one of these wards? What if he were felled by a bullet in some trench between our lines and the enemies_—_no man's land is what she overheard the soldiers calling it? What if he died, his body mired in the mud with no marker, no one to remember him, no one to say good-bye so far from home? _She shivered at these prospects. In the muted light of the winter's day, she wiped away a stray tear.

On her last day at the training hospital, her mother and Cousin Isobel came from Downton to pick her up. She greeted them in her nurse's uniform. She was happy to see them both and to tell them about her many experiences. She could see the pride on her mother's face, who now understood why this new vocation was so important.

A few minutes after her mother and cousin arrived, Branson came to retrieve her bags. Somewhere deep inside she was relieved that he had not left Downton. However, he his demeanor was officious and distant. He did not catch her gaze nor did he say anything to her. She sent her mother and cousin ahead to inspect the fine mosaics in hospital's chapel. As he walked behind her to the motorcar, she turned around and decided to thaw the chilly reception:

"I believe I've wasted your energies. Since I've been here I haven't worn anything in those bags except my uniform," she said looking down at her new attire peeking through her winter coat.

"So I can see. The nurse's uniform's a fine addition to your wardrobe, it suits you somehow," he said looking her over.

"I like it too. It doesn't get in the way while I'm working," she awkwardly responded. Then she added: "according to the newspapers it would seem the Russians are taking an awful beating from the Huns. Perhaps this isn't a good sign for Czar, but do you think it may rally the people?"

"I hear tell that strikes have overtaken the country. The masses will rise up most certainly. So you've been following the news then?"

"Of course I have, but I miss my debating partner. We have much to talk about I think," she offered reassuringly. He smiled. She could tell she had put him at ease and he understood she harbored no ill will after his heartfelt confession eight weeks ago.

"That we do. Let's get you home," he opened the heavy wooden door for her and she joined her mother and cousin in front of the motorcar.

Curiously, seeing him, hearing his voice it felt like she was already home.

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><p><em>Thank you Dusky Indian for suggesting Sybil's POV. And as of episode 7 still more holes in this ship than my writing I can possibly plug!<em>


	3. What Exactly do you Mean?

_Another hole plugged – this conversation occurs after the hospital scenes in DA2 episode 2. Thanks __ Myrtis Violette __for the suggestion of a talk in the car (well this one is out of the car). Comments, reviews and pointing out more holes to fill welcomed. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 3 – What Exactly Do You Mean?<p>

_May 1917_

_Did she really mean she couldn't go back to her life before the war? _Branson wondered as he drove down the road between the estate and the village. Her few months as a nurse had opened a new window onto the world and she was clearly seeing things she could have never imagined from inside the hermetic realm of Downton. What she was witnessing about how decisions of those in power affect the lives of many innocent men was clearly shifting her values. And if that was how she truly felt, it gave him hope that perhaps he was right that she would be willing to leave a life of privilege behind. That was at least a good sign he nodded to himself. Additionally, the fact that she didn't want to reveal his intimate declaration to her parents or Mr. Carson, which would surely have gotten him dismissed, also gave him hope that she cared for him in some fashion. But he was also looking for a sign that it was more than just their friendly rapport. He couldn't know just yet, he'd just have to be patient.

He could tell she was changing, but too bad her parents did not seem to notice these things about their youngest daughter. Lady Grantham had dispatched him to ferry her from the hospital back to Downton. She had already informed her mother on more than one occasion that she preferred to walk back home, but her Ladyship insisted on sending the chauffeur to collect her daughter. He had been called to Lady Grantham's sitting room where she instructed him that he had to "be sure she comes on time to dress for dinner. Her father is counting on her presence, it gives him a sense of continuity with life before the war." But he knew Sybil would be more than annoyed by their overbearing insistence, but he had to do his duty.

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><p>One last patient to see before she finished her shift, fortunately for this one officer she only needed to administer his medicines rather than change his bandages as had been her duties most of the day. Thankfully it went quickly, as she was exhausted. It had been another busy day with soldiers arriving with new wounds and others being shipped out. The number of patients had increased sevenfold since she started at the Cottage Hospital.<p>

Once done, she went to the small room where the nurses kept their belongings. She removed her cap, folded it and put it on a shelf. She grabbed her coat and hat, and rushed out of the door into the courtyard. She still had about an hours worth of daylight, so if she walked briskly she could get home before dark. Once home, she would race upstairs, change into an evening dress, and slip into the sitting room just before the family went into dinner. That was about as much she could muster after a taxing double shift tending the wounded men crowded into the hospital's cramped wards.

As she set off through the village the spring air was fragrant with the smell of budding trees and early blooms. She liked to walk back home after a grueling day. The peacefulness of the journey gave her time to mentally adjust from din of the hospital—the chaos of everyone moving about, the noises and smells of men's lives in the balance. The chasm between the shear physicality of her work and the languid life of Downton could only be brokered during these walks. Her mother, however, was none too keen on the daughter of the Earl Grantham walking home from work like one of the servants. "At least you could allow me to send Branson to pick you up in the evenings," her mother pleaded for some modicum of civility in exchange for allowing her to serve as a nurse. _Would Mama never let up," _she wondered. The one positive outcome of her mother's meddling was that if Branson were to pick her up, then she was glad that she could still talk to her friend. His insights were even more important now that she had taken her first steps into the world of work. She needed him in her corner. How much she relied on his support and advice amidst the chaos of wartime was beginning to surprise even her.

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><p>Just outside the village limits he noticed a figure walking along the road, as he drove closer he recognized the woman's blue coat and realized it was Lady Sybil. She had decided to walk home. He slowed down and put on the brake and politely informed her: "milady your mother insisted I bring you home in time for dinner."<p>

She threw up her hands and huffed "what does Mama not understand?"

"Sorry but I'm just the messenger."

"I know, I know," she said apologetically. She then looked down and kicked the dirt, "Why don't they listen to a word I say?"

He wasn't sure how to respond. He had been polite to her, but dare not return to their familiar rapport prior to her time in York. He only offered: "I'm sure her Ladyship has your best interests at heart."

"Oh, so you're siding with them now are you?" she accused him. Thinking that perhaps he was erring on their side because she had rejected his affections.

He decided to get out the automobile and stood rigidly in his pose of service, hand behind his back: "I side with no one, I am merely fulfilling my duty, which is to bring you home for dinner." He opened the car door and gestured for her to step in, "Please milady."

She stood on her side of the road, put her hands on her hips, and declared: "I chose to walk and walk I shall." And she turned to continue on her way.

"Argh, bloody hell," he said under his breath. He got back into the car to turn it around. Once he was heading back in the direction of Downton he drove past her and then stopped. He jumped out, took off his hat and threw it on to the seat. He ran back to her. "Look would you please stop. Just stop and get into the motorcar," he pointed toward the vehicle.

"Why should I," she asked defiantly.

"Because I'm to bring you home so that you can be on time for dinner," he repeated his charge.

"But why is Mama being so insistent?" she queried him.

"You will have to take that up with her Ladyship," he wisely decided to stay out of this family tiff.

"I will do just that when I get home," she tried to walk around him. But he would not let her and held up his palm to stop her.

"Look, would you please stop."

"Tell me then why should I?"

"If you need to know it's apparently important for his Lordship to feel that the war has not disrupted everything in his home," he finally revealed her mother's intentions. Sybil could be annoyingly implacable when she wanted her way and this was one of those times when she was going to make it more difficult than the situation required. As the sun was beginning to set, there they stood arguing in the middle of the road.

"Is that what Mama told you? How can they be so unfeeling?" she couldn't believe that her parents were ignoring how the war was ravaging the lives of so many around them. Poor William had just been called up. How could they insist on these formal meals together when the world around them was flying apart into a million pieces.

"If you don't mind my saying, I really don't think they're being unfeeling. Quite the contrary," he calmly replied. Perhaps she was being too harsh on her parents, they simply wanted to have their family near in a time of crisis. As someone far from home and his family, he could sympathize with them in that regard.

"What hasn't the war disrupted? You certainly don't believe that things should go on as before?" she emphatically asked. He was being stubborn not engaging her question.

"As I said they are being quite reasonable. Anyway this seems to be more about your independence than anything else," he tried to get down to the root of the problem at hand.

"Well I do wish mother hadn't send you to hover over me. I can walk home on my own steam I assure you."

"As you know I have the utmost faith in your determination. And believe me I'm by no means trying to hover over you," he replied put off by her accusation. In fact he'd expressly tried to avoid her these past few months.

"Well thank you for the vote of confidence, but you are still avoiding my question," she challenged him wanting to know what he thought.

"I am not avoiding your question, as I said I think they are being reasonable. They merely wish to have their daughter present for the family dinner," he lobbed back at her. He remembered from his childhood that trying to catch fish with his bare hands was much easier than trying to reason with her when she got a particular notion stuck in her head.

"And I'm asking _you_ if you think life, even dinners with the family, should go on as before this horrid war began?" she exclaimed and knitted her brow.

From that look on her face, he could tell she was getting angry. Part of him wanted to jump back in the motorcar and return to Downton to avoid this unnecessary confrontation. However another part of him did not want to lose this argument with her, plus he suspected there was something else at the bottom of her prickliness. "I think they are two different issues—one's about your family and the other's about the world beyond."

"And they aren't one in the same?" she kept prodding.

That did it. He was tired of this elliptical conversation and her sophomoric behavior. He was just trying to do his job and she was turning it into an ideological battle. "Blast woman! Why are you making this so difficult?" he replied exasperated at her resolve to stay on her course to get home on foot.

She folded her arms. "Well don't yell at me Tom Branson. You started it!"

"I started it? What do you mean I started it!" he said taken aback by where this argument was heading when all he wanted to do was get her home as he had been asked.

"You once told me that my family typifies why the aristocracy would lead the world into war. You claimed that it was the old monarchies of Europe who weren't allowing the people to have a say in how they are governed. You said that the peasants and workers would overthrow those who ruled. As you may recall, I didn't believe you then and stood my ground. I wasn't going to budge. Surely you remember our little disagreement?"

He remembered that heated argument well and she was succinct in her recollection of what he had said. He thought she might just slug him because he had made accusations about her inherited rank that were brutally honest—particularly caustic words for the chauffeur to say to his mistress. But she defended her family and position with great gusto he recalled. She could be tough and resilient. In these heated moments he found her immensely attractive, especially her quick wit and her sharp retorts. "Of course I remember our 'discussion.'" What he really meant to say was "fight," but didn't want to throw kerosene on their current disagreement.

"Well, now I understand why you said that and what you meant," she confessed. "Yesterday, you saw all the soldiers coming into the hospital. Limbs torn off, eyes ripped out of their sockets—grisly wouldn't even begin to characterize what bullets and bombs have done to their wretched bodies."

"Indeed a sad sight that was," he agreed as his mind flashed back to the injured men sitting outside the hospital wall and the newly arrived patients limping into its wards. It was a harrowing scene. He was sorry she had to witness such carnage. But he also respected her bravery at being in the frontlines of their care and added: "But you are there and I'm sure they are grateful."

She looked away for a moment and bit her lip. At the root of her agitation she realized were recent revelations about what she had been observing in the course of her duties. She needed to share what was on her mind with someone. Her sisters wouldn't understand the questions swirling inside her head. But he would. So she began, "you know in the evenings before I go to bed I read father's newspapers. I look over the pages. Headline after headline proclaim the noble cause of this great war." She sighed heavily, "quite honestly I no longer see what's so honorable about having half your face blown off."

It was a chilling observation for her to make. All he could do was listen intently.

"I know Papa wants to fight. He looks at Cousin Matthew and desperately wants to join him in the trenches. But I also know that other men, his peers don't want to go and would rather send these lads off to die for them. So you see you were right about them, about the nobility. They should no longer rule. The old ways of doing things, even my family's dinners, must change. We can't go back. That's why I'm not so keen on being home each night. I'd rather be working where I'm needed, doing something useful." Toiling all day in the wards had taught her far more in a few months, than she had learned in all her years at Downton. She had taken his words seriously and listened to what he was trying to tell her. She had had no frame of reference to gauge his strong stance—until now.

She really was leaving her old life behind. He was impressed by how perceptive she had become about the interconnectedness of international politics and everyday life far from the battlefields. He appreciated that she was willing to tell him what she was encountering, thinking, feeling. It somehow drew her closer to him. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give you a hard time." Then he added slowly and deliberately: "I just think his Lordship and her Ladyship care about you and want you near in these difficult times—as any parent would."

She cracked a smile and gave an inch, "of course they do and you are quite right. I'm fortunate to have parents who care."

Happy to have calmed the turbulent waters, he finally replied, "and to answer your question, of course life has changed for all of us. For you, for me." Then he had a revelation of his own to tell her: "I could be called up any time myself. And truth be told I don't know just yet what I'm going to do when it happens." He had never told anyone at Downton his moral dilemma about conscription, but he trusted her.

Upon hearing his words, she remembered her previous panic at the prospect of him dying in battle and chill came across her. The color drained from her cheeks.

"What's wrong, are you alright? You seem unwell suddenly. Are you cold, shall I give you my jacket?" he perceptively noticed a change in her demeanor and appearance. She gazed up at him and stared into his caring eyes with a look of utter desperation.

"Called up? You can't…" she gasped as her heart skipped a beat at the thought of him going off to war to be maimed or killed. Then she quickly composed herself and wiped her brow. "Yes, thank you for asking. I'll be fine. It's been a long day. I think I'm just hungry. I wonder what Mrs. Patmore has prepared. Here I am wasting your time about nothing, you'd better get me home."

"It was more than nothing. I'm glad I was here to listen to what you've been encountering in your new work. I really do admire your determination and commitment."

They stood looking at one another not sure what else to say. Eventually as twilight approached they walked back to the motorcar. He opened the door and she stepped in. After their passionate exchange in the middle of the road, they drove back to the house in silence—both were deep in thought.

She was glad they had ended their disagreement on good terms. She smiled as she watched the fresh spring landscape pass by—it was the first time that she had any inkling of what her feelings for him really meant.

He was pleased that they had found common ground in the end. He smiled as he drove the car up to the front door—it was the first time she had called him by his first name "Tom."


	4. What Do You Think?

_More banter from Sybil and Tom. Plugging yet two more holes in the story (and having fun working writing dialogue). Thank you ScarletCourt for pointing out the post-soup tureen hole in this ship. Thanks for the reviews! Raves, rant, and suggestions always spark creativity. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 4 – What Do You Think?<p>

His mind was swirling between the past, present, and future. As he went to work on the motorcar, he remembered that difficult letter from home. His sister didn't write often, he usually received news of the family from his mother. So when a letter appeared in the morning mail from his sister that day he knew it must be serious. When he finally had a moment to review its contents, he knew why she had contacted him: to let him know that they had survived the recent uprising in Dublin and to tell him that his cousin—who grew up three houses down—had been killed in the crossfire. He had kept abreast of the rebellion through the newspapers, but was relieved as well as saddened to get this personal account. His sister explained in detail what happened and how his family had fared. Buildings in the center city had been pummeled in the battles between the rebels and the army and police. A few childhood friends had been caught up in the street fighting and arrested. He was certain they had been imprisoned and perhaps executed for the insurrection. Since he could remember the quest of Home Rule had been source of pride for his peers. It was a noble cause, one that he was committed to join in some fashion, but in a manner that he could strive for independence via less violent tactics. From his sister's description of the events in that letter a year ago, all that he could conclude was that his cousin was an innocent bystander who had been ruthlessly murdered by British soldiers—whose leaders were now moving into Downton for convalescence.

While he tinkered with the valves on the Renault's engine, he thought through his future options. He had escaped aiding the war effort thus far, but knew it was a matter of time until he would be called to serve—especially since William had recently left for training. He wasn't sure what he would do given that the year old conscription law had netted every able man who had not already signed up. Even though he was Irish and technically exempt, because he lived and worked in England it made him eligible to serve. On the whole, however, he harbored, very serious reservations at the prospect of military service. Fighting for a nation that did not recognize his native country's independence would be an affront to the fundamental democratic belief of a peoples' right to sovereignty. Fighting for generals and politicians who had dispatched thousands of troops to kill his fellow countrymen would be an untenable duty. Serving to maintain a bloated aristocracy when legions of children and women suffered in poverty while their husbands and brothers were now forced to fight in this war seemed beyond comprehension. And killing and destroying in the name of King and Country was morally reprehensible when peaceful means should be the tools by which modern men resolved conflicts. These were all beliefs that he mulled over again and again—making him agitated and impatient. What would his future hold? Overall, his life was in a holding pattern caught between England and Ireland, between serving or objecting, between anger and hope, between his rejection or acceptance by Sybil. _Ahhh Christ, _he fumbled and dropped the wrench.

No sooner had his mind turned to thoughts of her than she suddenly appeared in the doorway of the garage.

"Branson? Branson are you in here?" he heard his name being called by Sybil's familiar voice.

"I'm over here, down here really" he said getting up from retrieving his tool. He needed to finish up these adjustments so he could bring the Dowager Countess to the house for dinner. He did not have the time, patience, or really the energy for an argument with her.

"Oh, wonderful there you are!" she smiled warmly as she stepped into the garage dressed in her nurses' uniform.

"Be careful there's a…" he uttered as he stood up from his task. But before he could render his warning, she tripped over the dolly that was near the door.

She quickly gained her balance as she grabbed the front wheel fender. "Oh my, I didn't see that. I'm quite all right. I've never been in here so I suppose I should be more careful where I step." That was true. She had often stopped outside while he tended the car, but he never imagined a lady of her stature would dare to enter a smelly, dusty garage—she was one to spur convention to be sure.

"Are you fine? Nothing hurt?" he asked as he put down the wrench and grabbed a cloth to walk toward her.

"Nothing hurt," she replied.

"Sorry about that I wasn't expecting anyone—just surprised its you," he said as he looked down at her foot inspecting that it was not hurt and wondering what on earth brought her in here.

"With Thomas and William now gone and everyone else preparing the house for the incoming officers, there's no one to send on errands anymore," she told him.

"You have something to tell me then?" he asked wondering what she wanted so he could get on with his work.

"Yes, I do. Mama said to tell you that you don't have to bring Granny over this evening. With most of the house in disarray, moving furniture around and such, Mama thought it wise not to have a family dinner for a few days," she informed.

"Right then, thank you for relaying the message," he replied at least he was no longer in a rush.

"I've never seen so many parts," she curiously observed of the garage.

"Motorcars are intricate machines. There are many different cogs, chambers and gaskets all requiring constant attention," he informed her while she surveyed the room.

"I can see that. Its impressive," she uttered somewhat in awe realizing that taking care of one of these mechanical monsters was quite a complex undertaking.

He was curious what she had been up to as of late. "You must be pleased that your parents agreed to turn the house into a convalescent home?"

"I am. I was surprised they agreed. All that space wasted whilst the men are crammed into the hospital in the village. It didn't make sense to me. I'm just glad that Cousin Isobel and I were adamant and prevailed. Though Papa was none to happy as you can imagine."

"His Lordship will come around. It is for the noble war effort I suppose," he replied with a hint of sarcasm. "We both know that when you want something, you can be determined," he complimented her.

"If it's important enough I am."

Convalescent home was not the same as a working hospital, so he wondered if she would miss both the work and her newfound independence. "So will you go back to working in the hospital or will you help out around here?" he inquired.

"There seems to be so much to do here at Downton."

"True, I'll be helping tomorrow—set up beds and the like."

"The more hands the better. Plus if I'm around here I can referee Cousin Isobel and Mama, there's bound to be sparks between them. There's a lot to coordinate, it's quite a task."

That may be true he thought, but at the hospital she seemed truly engaged in her work, moving forward with her life. Would this not be a step backwards for her? "But won't you miss the hospital, the challenge of it all—you seemed so committed to your work there. Convalescence seems less about nursing and more about attention?"

"It will be different do you think?" she knitted her brows quizzically.

"Well at the hospital you were on your own, everyday immersed in learning as much as you could about nursing. You set your own hours," he replied. "And you certainly weren't expected to be at family dinners," he chuckled alluding to their road battle.

"Ah yes, the dinners!" she too was amused as she remembered their show down. "Everything's been such a whirl of activity I hadn't time to consider whether I'd miss working in the hospital. I guess it was liberating. It made me feel useful in a way I'd never thought possible," she looked down mulling over what he had just said.

"I suspect her Ladyship will have much to say about what happens in the house. If you don't mind my saying you're very much a free spirit. You were just beginning to find your way out in the world, " he offered the observation to encourage her quest for independence.

"Free spirit? I feel I'm barely able to walk on my own," she turned her head to scan the wall of tools and containers trying to avoid his gaze.

"Maybe, but at least the steps were _on your own_," he said emphatically. "Your freedom seemed important enough to turndown a comfortable ride home," he reminded her.

Her head snapped back to look at him intently. "But won't you miss your freedom too? What I mean is you're bound to be called up soon," she shifted the topic to his current prospects.

"Could be?" he replied evasively.

"And you've already told me you aren't sure what you will do when the call comes?"

"True, I still don't know yet. But I will act—that you can be sure."

"Act in what way?" she could detect something was amiss with his usual jovial countenance. "I can tell you're angry about something. I know Ireland's recent troubles must be difficult for you. Will you tell me?" she asked trying get at the root of his anger.

"Like I said, I'm not sure just yet what I'll do," he replied. He wasn't keen on sharing the source of his resentment or his plans with her or anyone. So he decided to shift the discussion himself, he moved past her to lean on the motorcar. "You may remember that many of us believed that peace is the only road to resolve these conflicts between nations. Why throw everything we've fought for overboard to collude with those who oppress us?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

"Do for whom?" he replied passionately. "What will happen when the war is over? Yes there will be celebrations and homecomings. But where will Ireland be when it's all over," he began, then rephrased it not wanting to vent his anger to her. "Where will women be after you've given everything in the name of 'the right thing to do'? You'll still have no vote, you can't own property, your wages will be next to nothing—that is if you can find work at all. And you'll all be once again at the mercy of your husbands and _fathers_," he ended his statement with that pointed emphasis to implicate her own situation. "I didn't think you'd settle for that?"

"Of course I won't," she took a deep breath as she thought about his words—keenly aware he was trying to change the course of their conversation. "But I didn't ask about women's rights, I asked about what you plan to do if called?"

"You seemed very concerned about the affairs of the household's chauffeur," he deflected her comment yet again while also trying to draw her out.

"I shouldn't be concerned for your well being then?"

"Sounds as if you'll miss me?" he raised a brow in a flirtatious manner.

"I, I…" she stuttered put off kilter by his direct question. "Of course I'll miss you—who else do I have around here who can simultaneously provoke my intellect and stoke my ire?" she cracked a grin, but her voice conveyed a hint of utter frustration. Then she sighed realizing he wasn't going to tell her anything more: "I should be getting back or they'll wonder where I am. Good night," she ended their exchange and exited the garage.

"Good night then," he bid.

_Why was she so worried about what he did, was it just friendly concern?_ He now seemed more confused and curious than ever about her true feelings. _Would she really miss him?_ This added one more conundrum to his current state of uncertainty. _Ugh women! I'll stick to engines… _he mumbled as he went back to his work.

* * *

><p>When Mary told her what had transpired at last night's dinner for General Strutt—she couldn't believe what she was hearing.<p>

"Sybil are you alright. I thought you'd find it rather amusing?" Mary asked.

"He tried to do what?"

"I sort of pried it out of Anna this morning who didn't want to tell anyone so Papa wouldn't find out," Mary informed her. "I wonder if you were wrong and Papa was right—we should have let Branson go after your fall at Ripon. He's certainly got a lot of…"

"No absolutely not!" she cut short her sister. "And say nothing to Papa. I don't think Carson will do anything given the circumstances," she warned her sister. "I'm sure it was a big misunderstanding. He's been in such a mood since he found out…" she began distraughtly.

"Since he found out what?" Mary probed to find out what her sister knew about the reason for their chauffeur's erratic behavior and why she was so troubled by it.

"Its nothing important," she regained her composure and tried to put her sister off from inquiring any further. She didn't want her sister nosing into her personal relationships—especially one she couldn't quite characterize in conventional terms that would suit anyone at Downton, either above or below stairs.

_So this was his plan of action? _She was absolutely furious at him._ This was his big protest?_ She found it difficult to focus on the tasks at hand as she finished her morning rounds with the patients. _How could he be so reckless? _In the afternoon, she almost mixed up one patient's draughts and put the wrong salve on another patient's wound. _What was he thinking or rather not thinking?_ She muttered to herself as she almost walked a tray of medicines into a half-open door. _What to do? _She needed to get to the bottom of it—she would stop by the garage before dinner to confront him.

She marched down to the dependencies behind the house as soon as she finished with her shift. She contemplated the events that had led to his attempted provocation and carefully considered what she would say. Last night she noticed that he had walked into the dining room in footman's livery, but she suspected correctly that with William's departure Mr. Carson was shorthanded. _He looked somehow different out of his usual uniform—but in what way, quite handsome perhaps?_ Her thoughts drifted for a moment. Thinking about him either professionally or personally still infuriated her to no end_._ Using such subterfuge as a means to embarrass General Strutt would have surely gotten him arrested and imprisoned. She empathized with the root of his anger, but he had to promise that with so many British officers in the house he would not try anything so foolish again.

When she entered the garage he was out of his usual jacket and tie, and putting away some tools. She felt there was no point or time for niceties—so she launched into what she needed to say: "I can't believe you would put yourself in jeopardy in that way! I found out this morning what you tried to do to the general."

"Good evening milady," he responded nonchalantly to her rather abrupt appearance and continued on with his task—decidedly ignoring her. He was already irritated that Mr. Carson had intercepted his plans and at the moment he didn't need this interruption.

"Oh so you won't listen to what I have to say then?"

"I'm listening," he closed a drawer and turned around. "Proceed," he goaded her.

His cavalier attitude made her even more exasperated, all she wanted to do was keep him away from harm. She was relieved he wasn't going to end up a mangled mess like the soldiers she tended or worse still—dead. Nor was he going to be arrested through his plot to denounce the war and the British army. He would be safe—with her—at Downton till this awful war was over. Why couldn't he be happy about that rather than seething with bitterness? She had to make him see that he could realize his political aims in other ways.

"You said you would have a plan to protest the war—but I don't think dumping a brew of oil and cow pats constitutes an apt way to achieve your goal. Now is it?"

"Well it was a start," he stubbornly refused to yield to her point.

"I hear and understand your anger," she offered sympathetically. "I'm very sorry about your cousin being murdered by a British soldier. Believe me I didn't mean to be insensitive the other day in front of the house. And I know it must be difficult to have those very same officers nearby. But I thought you had bigger ambitions for achieving Irish independence?" she said calmly.

"I appreciate that apology," he responded to her olive branch. "And you know I have bigger ambitions—we've talked about all that."

"Indeed we have. You should go back to Ireland and fight for independence by whatever means. But you must promise me that you won't try anything else while the officers are here?"

"I will not," he said striving to keep his autonomy.

"Why are you so stubborn!" she groused.

"And why do you care what I am? Or for that matter what happens to me?" he pressed her.

"Because I just do," she replied. She could be just as impervious.

"As I asked before: will you miss me if I leave?"

"Yes—if you must know," which was about as far as she was willing to go, because she didn't understand herself why she was so invested in his protecting his welfare.

"Might it be because you care?" he had at a last alighted upon what he knew she was harboring deep down—that she did love him.

"I do care what happens to you," she looked down as she nervously tapped her hand on her uniform. "You've been a good friend to me. I value that and I don't want to see you lose your job or be harmed."

"Well I too value your friendship. But I think you care for me far more than you are willing to admit, otherwise why would you even be here?"

Could he be harkening back to his proposal in York she wondered? She thought they'd put that behind them and that he knew friendship was all that she was willing to give, at least at the moment—or was he right, there was more to why she cared. He had rendered her speechless, set adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions.

"Huh, didn't think I could confound you!" he teased.

She ventured a smiled, "I'm not confounded—just thinking."

"Well you've much to think about," he smugly suggested raising a brow and crossing his arms.

"Hmm, perhaps I do," she tensed her fists, turned around and left the garage completely vexed. She walked back up to the house in a hurry.

_Why do I let him get to me in this way? _ She had come to the garage to exact from him a promise and instead he had cleverly exacted from her an apology and a confession. _What was it about him that she kept returning to?_ His words, his actions had this way of turning her world completely around. He was captivating, dangerous, and thrilling—all at the same time. She couldn't decide whether he repelled her or drew her even closer. As she entered the house, her mind was swirling with so many feelings. She needed to stop thinking about him but could she? The sound of the dinner gong echoed through the house._ Ughh, men!_ _Why do we put up with them…_she mumbled as she climbed the stairs to dress for dinner.


	5. What are You Asking?

_The biggest gaping hole in this ship! For all those who requested for "it" to be plugged, here is the famous missing scene (although not sure there ever was one filmed!) Thanks to those folks who pointed out the timeline issues – this was suppose to be a one-shot so hadn't plotted one, I've really been enjoying writing dialogue. And I appreciate the speculations, suggestions, and reviews. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 5 - What Are You Asking?<p>

Sybil marched through kitchen. His ultimatum had infuriated her. No it wasn't just anger that fueled her current frenzied state, it was a mix of fury and hurt, enveloped by an unsettling pang of excitement, one she could almost describe as a kind of hunger. _What does he want from me?_ She interpreted his request for her to confess her inner feelings toward him as one more demand—this time from him. But she had already had to fend off demands from her father and mother, from Mary, from her grandmother. "_What do they all want for me?"_

Anna sat at the table in the servant's hall mending one of Lady Edith's dresses before the gong summoned the household to prepare for dinner. She was surprised to see a nurse enter through the servant's entrance in the middle of a shift then she realized it was Lady Sybil, who from her expression was clearly in a fog. Anna tried unsuccessfully to catch her attention, "Milady, her ladyship asked me to put out your blue…" But before Anna could finish Lady Sybil dashed by her, up the stairs, and into the main part of the house.

Shortly thereafter Branson hurried into the servant's hall. Clearly flustered, he asked Anna: "Did Lady Sybil by chance just come through here?"

"Yes she did Mr. Branson, but I believe she's already upstairs."

He let out a heavy sigh and stood frozen in indecision.

Based on the various times she had seen them together, Anna had detected an unusual bond, surely an innocent friendship, between her young mistress and the household chauffeur. These observations were confirmed months ago when she found his note begging Lady Sybil's forgiveness for his attempt to embarrass the visiting general. While she had alerted Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes about his pending actions, Anna hoped the note would not in any way cause difficulties for either Lady Sybil or Mr. Branson—as she was fond of them both. Seeing his distress, Anna offered her assistance: "I'm about to go upstairs, should I convey a message to her?" Anna offered

"No. No, but thanks for offering though. I believe it's a message I'd best deliver myself," he replied, his voice conveying a hint of remorse. He then turned around and walked back out of the house.

* * *

><p>When she darted into her bedroom she noticed her blue evening dress neatly laid out on the bed. In her rush to get upstairs and find a refuge from all the turmoil, she vaguely remembered hearing Anna say something about putting out her old blue gown as her mother had requested. With its high neckline and loose fit, the dress made her look like a little girl not a woman. Certainly she was no longer a child in need of directions on what to wear and on what occasion to wear it. She was an adult capable of making her own decisions about her attire, about who she befriended, and more importantly about what she did with her life. <em>Why could they not see and respect this? <em>Again she wondered: "_What do they all want for me?"_

The warm glow of the fire and the familiarity of her room provided a sense of calm. She sat down at her dressing table. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She had never really looked at herself in the mirror while dressed in her uniform. As she looked intently at her reflection, she considered the uniform's impact and meaning. It was like she had been taken out of some suffocating restraint and she could finally breath the sweetness of the country air. Her body felt free. Her mind felt liberated. The dress's crisp white collar and grey cotton color diminished all signs of her privilege. Anyone looking at her would never know that she was the daughter of the Earl of Grantham. All they saw was a young woman, a nurse working diligently to aid the wounded and convalescent. _Would they imagine her as someone who worked to support herself and perhaps her family, as many of the other nurses did? Could she be that kind of woman whose physical labor sustained her?_ But alas that could never happen. A woman of her social standing was expected to find a suitable husband, marry young, and bear his many children—that was the kind of labor to which she was destined. This is what her family and society demanded of her, but was it what she wanted?

As she stood up to change for dinner, she walked over to the bed and gazed intently at that other life laid out for her: the finely beaded dress, silk covered shoes, long gloves, and fine jewelry. The prospect of it all overwhelmed her—she felt caged. She had two choices: to prescribe to what was expected of her or to continue along the path she had now set out for herself, away from all of this, perhaps away from Downton. _Would they understand her choices and respect them?_ Her biggest fear of all was that if she did choose to pursue her beliefs then her family would perceive it as a betrayal, she would have forsaken all that they had provided for her. She knew in her heart that she could never disappoint or hurt them in anyway.

But her heart at the moment was feeling many things. His comment about her work was particularly biting and she felt she didn't deserve such derision. However he was right on one point—she did miss the day-to-day challenges of the hospital and the independence that being away from Downton afforded. More than anyone he had encouraged her awareness of the world beyond these four walls. He had become an important ally and confidant. He could make her laugh as well as make her blood boil. Despite the obvious objections from her family and the perceived impropriety of their relationship, he was her friend, but could he become her husband, her lover? Did she love him as he claimed? Her heart skipped a beat at the prospect. TAP, TAP! The knock startled her from her reverie.

Anna peeked in, "Pardon me milady I'm here to help you get ready for dinner."

She turned around toward the door, "Yes do come in.

"Will you be wearing the blue dress as her Ladyship suggested?"

"No I will not, _my_ choice tonight is the black and gold one," Sybil insisted—she was in charge of her life now.

Anna opened the wardrobe and took out the other gown. "Oh and I believe Mr. Branson was looking for you earlier," Anna tactfully informed her.

"Yes, thank you. I believe I know what he was looking for, I'm just not sure if I can help," she responded cryptically to Anna as she took the dress and prepared herself for dinner.

* * *

><p>It was almost midnight and he lay awake contemplating the lamp's arc of yellow as it faded into the dark corner of the cottage's large room. He was relieved to be lying in his bed with his book resting comfortably on his stomach, especially after a long day of work and a difficult confrontation with Sybil. Sometimes, like today, he felt the weight of his uniform's enduring sameness and he longed to be doing something else with his life, be somewhere else. But he would have to be patient with those ambitions until the war was over and the cause for independence was revived. He would also have to be patient with her—he knew he was asking a lot of her.<p>

It was only natural that she had a strong attachment to her family and the only life she had known. He admired her dedication to them and her respect for what they had provided. This loving regard spoke to her deep sense of loyalty and integrity. It was one of the many things that drew him to her. He had experienced enough of life to also know that loyalty however could easily slide into blind allegiance and foster the inability to challenge injustice or recognize oppression. Honor was indeed important because showing respect was fundamental to any bond of family, friendship, or community. But if honor became a façade behind which to hide one's true intentions or desires then life became nothing more than a lie. She need only look as far as her own sister's and Mr. Crawley's inability to openly acknowledge their love for one another to witness the unhappy outcomes of such denial. In many respects, this hallmark of aristocratic restraint in the name of honor had left many of her class blind to those who suffered around them. Fortunately she was not encumbered by such insensitivity or at least as far as he could tell.

While in York she may have spurned his initial gestures, his continued renewal of his own desires and wishes toward her seemed to be at least honest. He needed an answer and she has offered neither a confirmation nor denial. From her response earlier that evening to his suggestion that she was in love with him but too afraid to admit it, he could also sense the pressure society put upon her to conform to a particular way of life. But he also knew that she harbored a profound need to do something meaningful and lead of life of engagement not leisure. Her choice to become a nurse was clearly a step in that direction but she would have to find the way herself. After all it would have to be her decision about what she wanted to do with her future and as it pertained to him—whom she chose to share her future with.

While his forthright confession was meant to prompt an acknowledgement of her feelings toward him, he did regret belittling her work her at Downton. He never meant to hurt her and he could see immediately how his words stung with their pointed delivery. He would have to find the opportune moment to apologize and for her to know that he had the utmost respect for her abilities, ambitions, and choices. In the end, even if she determined that she did not love him, he would respect her choice. With that course of action determined, he turned off the lamp and finally went to sleep.

* * *

><p>A few days later he drove the Dowager Countess to the house for a concert that was being staged by the officers. Ladies Mary and Edith would be performing a musical duet and all of the household staff had been invited to attend. After he walked the Dowager Countess into the great hall, he caught a glimpse of Sybil. He noticed that she was in her nurse's uniform and not wearing the sort of attire he would have expected for this sort of event hosted by the family. As he approached her, she was in the midst of explaining something to a young nurse. He politely inquired, "Pardon me milady, might I have a word with you?"<p>

"Um, yes certainly Mr. Branson," she replied with equal formality, "please give me a moment." She directed her fellow nurse to roll the captain's wheelchair near the fireplace to make sure that he didn't catch a chill.

When done, the two walked discreetly over to a corner in the great hall where they could be neither be overheard nor seen by guests entering the library. She leaned against the wall and addressed him with a familiarity and directness that both had grown comfortable with: "Is there something you wish to tell me?"

He pursed his lips then breathed in. "Actually it's something I want to ask you: will you forgive me? From before, when you came to the garage a few days ago to tell me about your sister finding out about us?" he awkwardly began. "What I want to say is I didn't mean to belittle your work here at Downton; you've done more than anyone to make this a place truly useful to men who need it. I greatly admire your spirit and your hard work," he told her. He then added quietly, "I think you know how much."

She wasn't expecting this apology from him, especially right now and in front of all these people. She wasn't sure how to respond. "I think we both may have said things earlier that we didn't mean," she reticently replied, uneasy at her own fraught emotions in regards to him.

"That may be true but I think I went too far," he confessed.

"Wouldn't be the first time," she recalled of their many debates where he made statements to deliberately get a rise from her.

"I know it wouldn't be the first time, but it doesn't excuse what I said," he confessed with a tone of sincere regret. "You know when I get riled up about a something I believe in…" he began.

"…you don't back down," she effortlessly finished his sentence.

He cocked his head surprised at her response. She clearly knew him well. "Neither do you for that matter," he pointed out her own tendency to be passionately stubborn—one he was also all too familiar with.

As she grasped his words, her mouth turned up into a wide grin: "Touché!" He'd made her see something about herself that she had never noticed and laugh at herself in the process.

"But honestly," he told her, "I didn't mean to be quite so harsh."

"I know you didn't and it's fine—I accept your apology. In fact your toughness is rather good for me. The world beyond Downton can be an unforgiving place. It isn't always rosy or polite as I'm now learning."

"I can see that," he said looking her over as he remembered what she was like when they first met years ago. "You've grown immensely if you don't mind my saying," he complimented her hard fought transformation from sheltered girl to working woman.

"Well I'm glad someone around here is noticing," she said appreciatively.

"I'm sure your parents and family are very proud of you even if they don't always say so."

"I do hope they are."

"But it doesn't mean that they or I should ever dismiss your work. I just want you to be the best at what you do," he earnestly conveyed.

"I appreciate your confidence that I will succeed," she replied realizing just how much he respected her ambitions and abilities.

He then lowered his voice not wanting anyone coming into the room to hear him, "I guess I'm a bit jealous that these officers have been getting so much of your time." He wasn't sure how she would respond to this forthright expression of his true feelings for her.

Her gaze dropped to study the carpet. "You needn't be jealous," she blushed visibly.

He stood amazed at her response—perhaps she was finally becoming aware that she did indeed love him despite all the impediments between them. This gave him an opening through which to offer another apology for his own inner turmoil, "I'm also sorry I've been so difficult as of late."

She looked up at him again. "With all that has been happening these past months, I have noticed the change in you."

He appreciated that she was mindful of his temperament, "there's been a storm brewing inside for a long time—first the call, then the rejection, next the failed protest—it all happened so quickly. I suppose I let my anger get the best of me."

"Well like I said, there's no need to worry about Mary. She'll keep quiet about us. I'll make sure your position here is safe. Just know…"

"Yes?"

"Just know that if something happened that took you away from here, from me," she whispered. "I would miss you—more than I can say," she looked him in the eyes and expressed the first genuine acknowledgement of her complex feelings for him.

It was an utterance that hung in mid-air between them—certainly shocking him and perhaps even surprising her. He didn't know what to say. They paused to absorb the implications of what she had just admitted. Both felt the pressures of their respective social positions dissipate, replaced by a newfound understanding between them.

"I know you want something definitive from me but I honestly can't tell you," she said tenderly. "So much is happening right now. I just don't know yet," she offered as much clarity as she could muster about her very confused state of mind.

She looked into his eyes with a passion and sincerity he had not witnessed before. Even in her plain uniform with her hair tucked beneath her cap, her radiant beauty enthralled him. Her lips invited a kiss right then and there. He took a deep breath and replied, "_'yet,'_ well at least that's promising."

"Hah, now that's the unbridled optimism I've come to expect from you," she told her dearest friend, glad to see that side of him once again (overconfidence and all).

He was overjoyed by the admission that she did have feelings for him—even if they were yet to be named or acted upon. Savoring this intimate moment between them, he reassured her, "I'll be here for you—always. And I'll try to be better behaved in the future."

"You had better be," she replied flirtatiously. She studied his face intently and found his blue eyes riveting. Suddenly that peculiar feeling she'd had in the past—a lightheaded sort of tingly sensation—crept over her. "I um, I'd best be getting back to the library…to help."

He bowed slightly and gestured for her to walk in the direction of the library, "thank you for hearing me out."

Once they entered the room, Sybil took care of a few more officers. When the performance commenced, rather than sit with her parents amidst the audience, she decided to take a place just in front of him and to stand proudly alongside her fellow workers in uniform: the nurses and household staff.

She was a truly remarkable young woman—kind, committed, passionate—and he was as much in love with her as ever.


	6. You Do?

_Another gap filled. This one recommended by Aquataine85 and ScarletCourt filled in a subtle, but critical crack in the plotline. Pointing out the holes in this ship always inspires and thanks for the thoughtful reviews—always fun to know what you think about this ongoing story. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 6 –You Do?<p>

The mid-summer day was cloudless with the kind of sky whose blue stretches to infinity. Branson looked up to marvel at its beauty, even though his heart was heavy, deeply saddened by the burial of William a few hours earlier. He had ventured out for some fresh air leaving the small gathering of Downtonites at the Dower House. After the funeral services, the Dowager Countess generously hosted tea for her family, Mr. Mason and some of the senior staff: Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, Anna, Mr. Bates, Miss O'Brien, Mrs. Patmore and of course, his widow Daisy. He leaned against the family's new Sunbeam limousine—arms crossed, tie loosened, jacket unbuttoned—contemplating the costs of war and the realities of loss.

_What was the point of William's death or Mr. Crawley's near death?_ He recalled William's eternally affable demeanor—except for that one evening when he took out a much deserving Thomas with a mean right blow. No one else played the piano with the skill and ease of William and he missed those musical interludes, especially after a long day of work. Somewhere a military clerk, who tallied the dead in this costly war, had recorded William Mason's name in a ledger, but made no note of his musical talents. His name would eventually be etched in stone on some village or county monument honoring the fallen, but this sort of testament could never embody the footman's kind heart. A headstone listing only name and dates cannot record those facets of a person's life that make it distinct and memorable. Sadly, the village cemetery was already filled rows of simple white markers for the many local men who had sacrificed their lives in the name of a supposed noble cause. He imagined there would be even more headstones sprouting up there before the war ended. But could the leaders in command of this great empire guarantee that the cause for which these working class men and farmers had died better the fortunes of other men like them who will survive the battlefield carnage? Once the killing and maiming ceased would soldiers return home to jobs with adequate wages, would their families live in decent homes, and what would happen to those families who had been left behind to live with only their memories and grief?

While Downton may have lost a second footman and member of its close-knit household, Mr. Mason had lost his son, his last remaining family. Those bonds of fidelity and intimacy mattered most in life. The passing of that kind of love can be devastating to a person. He viscerally recalled that empty feeling—the hollowness of loss. He remembered watching his father's wooden coffin lowered into the ground on a chilly rainy afternoon. The smell of freshly turned wet earth, the deafening silence of grief, the sound of rain lightly tapping the umbrellas—the vivid contours of that moment came rushing back to him. He also remembered the warmth of his mother's grasp as she took his hand and led him away from the cemetery. His mother's intense love for her children (along with the care of aunts and uncles and the kindness of family friends) eventually filled most of the void left behind in the wake of his father's untimely death. Love, in all its incarnations, was a powerful transformative emotion he realized.

Lost in the haze of his memories, he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps ascend down the nearby stone stairs. He craned his head over the car and noticed Lady Sybil walking hurriedly to the garden behind the house.

* * *

><p>Sybil tilted her face upwards to feel the subtle heat of the sun caress her skin. She found its warmth immensely comforting, a relief from the cloud of sorrow that blanketed the atmosphere of the drawing room inside. She had almost gagged on the sweetness of her tea and found the small talk about this or that skirted the real matters of death that were at the root of this small gathering. It all felt claustrophobic. She didn't even bother to collect her hat and coat before she fled outside to get some air.<p>

Already feeling some relief to all of the woe, she walked into the garden and headed toward the beds of brightly colored roses—her grandmother's highly prized flowers. As a child she always enjoyed playing in this garden because unlike Downton's neatly sown parterres, the winding paths and beds behind the Dower house had a wild romantic character to them. She remembered hiding from her sisters amongst the bounteous collection of rose bushes because they were shielded from view by two large oaks. Like most seasons, this year's yield of blossoms did not disappoint. The pale pinks, vivid reds and soft yellows exploded in joyous color around her as she strolled through the flowerbeds. She reached out to touch a long stem beauty but pricked her finger on the thorns of the adjacent stem. Her hand recoiled at the stinging pain. _What was it he had said about "terrible sacrifices" for a life worth living?_

Since the war, death had intruded into her life more than she could have ever imagined as that little girl crouching behind the roses. She had not yet been born when her grandfather died and she couldn't remember ever going to a funeral as a child. But in the past four years she had attended several funerals for men cut down in their prime. All those promising young men from her first season, men like Lieutenant Courtenay at the Cottage Hospital, and now poor William and almost Matthew. Did their unfortunate deaths really make a difference? Or would it be up to her and others to change the course of this country so that a war like this would never happen again? Yes, she wanted to lead a purposeful life. Politics and people mattered. _But could she make the necessary sacrifices in order to pursue those revolutionary aims?_

She extended her hand again to touch the scarlet rose—its petals felt silky, pliant. It was diminutive yet so perfectly formed. She leaned forward and inhaled its fragrant scent. Beautiful yet fragile, she observed of the rose as one petal fell lightly to the ground. She then gazed up at the afternoon sky whose deep blue reminded her of his eyes, their loving reassurance. Sometimes when they stood face to face, she felt an almost feverish sensation. A few days ago she was surprised by her desire to kiss him. She remembered the sound of his voice and how she always felt safe around him. A feeling of calm overtook her anguish. At that moment she finally knew just how much she loved him—a tear of joy streamed down her cheek.

* * *

><p>Branson looked at Sybil standing amidst the roses and marveled at her graceful profile in the soft afternoon light. Not only did she possess a fine intellect but her looks had also blossomed in her transition from girl to woman. She was strikingly beautiful even when dressed in solemn black. For a moment he watched her move amongst the dappled colors of the garden. But all was not well, he observed. She seemed forlorn. As he approached, he spoke softly: "Such sadness amidst so much beauty."<p>

The sound of his voice, one she had just dwelled upon, startled her: "I, I'm crying because I'm hap…" The tear multiplied to a torrent. It was as if he could read her thoughts. When he came to a stop next to her, she—embarrassed by her vulnerability—instinctively turned away. Now keenly aware of her raw emotions and desires, she did not know how to address him. _What should she say, what could she say? _She was conscious that to some, even her family, she had fallen in love with the household's chauffeur. It certainly didn't matter to her, but she needed time to sort all of this out. However right now, more than anything she needed him—and by chance there he was. She desperately wanted to feel his warm embrace.

"I didn't mean to surprise you," he said realizing his intrusion upon a very private moment. "I'm sorry, I'll go," he began to move away.

"No. No, don't leave, it's not your fault exactly," she barely got out. "My handkerchief is in my purse…I want you to stay, please."

Sensing her distress, he wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and console her, but instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. He handed it to her. As she took it their fingers lightly brushed and lingered. They savored the spark of intimacy in this momentary touch of their bare hands. She pulled the soft cloth out of his clutch and began to wipe away her tears.

She turned back toward him. Her eyes were a watery, blurry mess, face completely flushed, but to him she never looked more beguiling.

"Thank you. I believe I've now completely soaked your handkerchief," she said apologetically as she handed it back to him. "I don't mean to be such a baby about these things," she honestly confessed, looking at him for affirmation.

"Its quite alright," he replied as he put the damp square back into his pocket. He studied her face, "Your not…" He was going to say "a child, but very much your own woman" but he stopped short. He sensed something else in her demeanor—an openness and vulnerability that he had not detected before in any of their exchanges.

The two stood in the garden, mere inches apart, staring wistfully at one another—neither sure of what to say next.

"I needed to get…" she started, but he uttered simultaneously, "I came to see…" They both laughed at their sudden awkwardness.

"You're smiling at least," he was pleased to have lifted her spirits. "I came to see if you were alright. I was out front getting some air and saw you come rushing out of the house."

"Thank you for your concern and for boosting my spirits. I too needed to get some air, to escape that stuffy drawing room," she took a deep breath. "I used to play here as a child, hide from my sisters between the bushes. It seemed an ideal place of refuge," she pointed to where she used take cover.

"Good place to disappear to," he replied about her former hiding place. He then observed: "Sad things these funerals. Tears and tea—a strange combination wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed. I was recalling the many funerals I've had to attend since the war began. Young men like William lost to us forever."

"Before their time. I too was remembering my childhood, my pa's funeral. It seems so long ago now…" he trailed off.

"How old were you?" she drew him out wanting to know more about his life in Ireland.

"No more than seven."

"You've told me he passed away, but I didn't realize you were so young. I'm sorry."

"It was all very sudden," he swallowed and gazed off in the distance. "Pa came home from his job at the train station like clockwork every evening. He was a man of precision. Proud he was of his boys. But he also loved his girls."

"I can't imagine growing up without my father."

"One day he took sick. Dead the next," his voice cracked slightly.

She gasped and her hand covered her mouth.

"They said it was pneumonia. His lungs were apparently too weak from working in the mines as a boy. Work killed him or rather the horrendous conditions in the mines that is. He died at thirty-five, well before his time."

"It sounds so unfair, to labor under those conditions, he was just a boy," she offered sympathetically. She began to understand why he had formed such strong opinions about justice and fairness.

"My ma did the best she could after he died. She worked hard everyday. Even so, tired as she was ma made sure we never went hungry, we all got an education and could stand on our own," he looked back at her.

"Your mother must be very proud of her son," she said recognizing how far he had come with his own ambitions—and without the benefit of her aristocratic privileges. "You must miss your father terribly," she replied tenderly.

"I do miss him." He candidly revealed, "The emptiness took a long time to fill. I think death has a way of forcing you to take measure of what you value most in life."

She averted her gaze to the ground. "Just now, before you came, I was also thinking about what and who matters the most to me in my world here at Downton." She wasn't going to make the mistake her sister had with Matthew. She wasn't going to hide her feelings anymore. She looked up at him and finally let her heart speak: "I do know I owe you an answer and I'm sorry I've put you off for so long."

"You mean if you'll leave Downton with me?"

"Yes, what you first asked me in York."

He said nothing. It was the first time she had acknowledged that she was even considering his offer made more than two years ago.

"I want you to understand I know what's important to you: the quest for independence, for Ireland, rights for women and workers," she explained.

"You know me well then," he commented—gratified that there was this unshakable bond between them.

"I haven't really told you this, but you've challenged me in ways no one else has and I appreciate that. You treat me differently than everyone else. You respect what I think and say and I value that. I wouldn't have had the courage to become a nurse without it," she began to explain what she valued about him.

"I admire your willingness to listen as well as challenge me when you don't agree. I know at times I've been—shall we say—a little too assertive about my hopes for you, about what your life could be with me. But I reckon its only because I want you to join in the real fight to change this bloody world for the better," he said passionately.

"I've been somewhat oblivious to what you've been trying to get me to see beyond this little village of ours," she turned her head to survey the garden noticing how it appeared small and provincial to her now.

"And I've been oblivious to what I'm asking you to give up—your life here at Downton, but really the love and respect of your family," he told her taking measure of what she valued and why she was hesitant to leave with him.

She looked back at him with a triumphant grin. "Well now, you and I _finally_ agree on something!" she quipped.

"How about we call a truce then, I don't want to argue with you anymore?" he suggested.

"I'd like that very much. Although I think I would miss our verbal jousting, but perhaps we could engage less often," she replied warmly.

He nodded in agreement.

Her tears now dry, she blushed profusely and looked away. Her heart had leapt from sadness to embarrassment to joy, but deep down he made her profoundly happy. He should know how she truly felt, even if she didn't know what to do about it. She took a deep breath and began: "I want you to understand that while I'm not sure if I can leave my family, I do care for you—deeply."

"Are you saying you love me?" he asked in astonishment.

"I think I do," she revealed softly.

"You do?" he asked as his heart fluttered suddenly at her revelation.

"But I can't be certain what I will do. Can you be patient with me, give me a little more time?"

"I appreciate your honesty. It's not an easy choice I'm asking you to make. But I'll be here when you decide and as long as you need me," he affirmed, his eyes alight with passion and heart full of love.

It was true she needed him. She was relieved to have him here, but she wanted more—to reach out and touch him, and be held in his arms. This was a new sensation for her—desire. "I know that now, thank you," she smiled alluringly.

Enthralled by the prospect of love, they leaned in to share a kiss. But before their lips could meet, they heard the sound of Anna's voice: _"Milady? Lady Sybil are you out here?"_ They quickly pulled away. She turned around to greet Anna who traipsed down the path from the house. He withdrew to stand at a more respectable distance between servant and mistress.

"Anna I'm over here," she waved. "I was just showing Branson my favorite childhood place to hide amongst Granny's prized roses," she replied nervously as Anna came up to them.

"Milady, her Ladyship and his Lordship are ready to return to the house. They sent me to find you," Anna informed a flustered Sybil. "Mr. Branson," the housemaid nodded to the driver who was now buttoning his jacket. Anna realized that she had intruded upon an encounter that could easily be interpreted as untoward. She wondered if their unconventional friendship was becoming something even more unusual between two people cast in their situation—she felt nothing but trepidation for them at the prospect that they might be falling in love.

"Right then, I had best be heading back and getting the motorcar started," he told Anna. "Thank you milady for the garden tour. I didn't mean to take up so much of your time. You've been most patient with me," he politely bowed with his hand behind his back. The two servants followed their young mistress back up to the house.

* * *

><p>"Sybil there you are. I cannot believe you were in the garden that long without your hat. You don't want to spoil your lovely complexion dear," admonished Cora as she greeted her wayward daughter in front of the Dower house.<p>

"How ever will I be on my own if you continue to hover over me?" she replied as her grandmother's butler helped her into her coat.

"Once you are married, I promise I will stop hovering. Anyways I'll have my grandchildren to hover over," Cora smartly replied.

"Oh mama, please don't!" she said in exasperation at the life her parents had mapped out for her.

"I can't believe I'm agreeing with her, but your grandmother is quite right, with this war likely to end soon we must find you a suitable husband."

Mildly annoyed by her mother's interference but even more ecstatic about her recent encounter with Branson, Sybil chose to remain silent as she put on her hat and gloves. It was like a weight had been lifted off of her heart and she felt lightheaded and free. Perhaps this was what true happiness felt like she surmised. While she waited for her father and sisters to come out, she watched the man she did love diligently perform his duties as he prepared the car. Once done and the motorcar was started, he waited by the door in his stance of proper service as the family came toward the vehicle.

She said nothing to him nor caught his gaze as she climbed into the spacious interior of the car. Her mother and father stepped in next. And her two sisters followed to sit facing them. He got behind the steering wheel and put the limousine in gear. They sped off through the village.

"That was very kind of mother to host this tea for Mr. Mason. Poor dear man, to have lost his only son, what a horrible twist of fate," Robert commented to his family on the day's events.

"Well dear your mother is certainly one for surprises. I appreciate her kindness toward Mr. Mason and all she did to make William's last days comfortable," Cora said.

"Granny mucked into the war effort in her own unique way," Edith chimed in. "You should have seen her command the telephone with our poor dear cousin at the war office!"

"Let's hope this horrible war will end soon, so no more have to die like William or be harmed like Matthew," Mary offered.

"From the looks of it I believe the war will be over soon and we can have Downton back to way things used to be," her father said longing for another time.

They drove through the gates of Downton and Cora tenderly grabbed her hand. _How could I ever hurt them, _she pondered as she mulled over the consequences of what her heart, brimming with love for him, was telling her she must do.

Sybil suddenly comprehended what having the world "back to the way things used to be" would actually entail. She had gained so much in the past few years—independence, purpose, and determination_. _She wanted to continue to work and lead a life of engagement. _How can I ever go back to an existence of ease and privilege?_ She needed to rally the strength and courage to follow her beliefs. She stared intently at the fleeting view along the road to Downton.

From the angle of her seat, she could see the side of Branson's face—his stern jaw and a hint of his eyes. In her father's new limousine, she sat further away from the driver than in the older Renault. This physical chasm between them, maintained by the requisite protocols of decorum when in the presence of others, left her feeling lonely—even amidst the family she loved very much.

From his rear-view mirror, Branson could see Sybil's face as she sat next to her mother. The way she knitted her brows and gazed out of the window, he could discern that she was deep in thought. Like him, she too must be considering her own prospects and what their future together might promise. He had made a daring declaration that he was in love with the daughter of the Earl of Grantham and from all outward appearances she fit the expectations of her social rank. But did her family really know the woman she had become? He was now certain that she loved him, she had confessed as much no more than an hour ago. It was only a matter of time till she had the courage to act upon her convictions. He felt hopeful, in fact he was deliriously happy.

If, he thought, no _when_ they marry, their alliance would transgress all of the centuries old customs that comfortably distanced one class from another. Their modern marriage will inflame tensions with her aristocratic family and with his duty-bound colleagues in service. Mr. Carson, the stern keeper of the household order, will no doubt be as angry as Lord Grantham. The head butler will feel he had been deceived and betrayed in the worse possible way by his young charge. And she was quite right he couldn't be sure his family would accept her either. The daughter of English nobility—she was for all intents and purposes the enemy to many in his family. No matter where they turned, they would encounter disapproval. Together they would have to commit to forging a different world for themselves—one where those notions of class difference and social rank no longer had a place. For now, however, he had to be patient until she made her decision and continue to play his designated role as the household's driver.

He pulled up the car in front of the stately house that she had called home all her life. One of the housemaids came out to open the car door for Lord and Lady Grantham and her sisters. He went around to open the other door for Sybil.

"Here you are milady, home safe and sound," he said as he took her gloved hand and helped her step out of the vehicle.

"Its my home...for now," she replied gently squeezing his hand.

Alone on that side of the limousine, they smiled at each other knowingly and lovingly before they had to part ways and return to their respective places and duties in the cavernous house that now loomed over them.


	7. You Don't Say?

_Major holes in episodes 6 and 7 filled in this chapter. Thank you Charlotte, Aquitane85, Scarlet Court, and Harry and George for pointing out these gaps. I appreciate the thoughtful reviews and comments—these help inspire the creative juices. Three more chapters to go, but many, many holes left to plug—Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 7 – You Don't Say?<p>

The morning shift at the hospital had been long and taxing, but wonderfully gratifying Sybil thought as she wiped her brow and headed out of the ward. She had finished changing the bandages on her last patient, a colonel whose leg had been mangled by shrapnel in a fierce row somewhere near the Belgian border. She gave him an injection of morphine to calm the pain and he quietly fell into a deep slumber. The number of men admitted to the hospital had slowed significantly and the number of officers convalescing at Downton had dwindled to a handful. But there were many soldiers who still needed to be looked after, especially those confined to the hospital's wards like the colonel. Before she departed her duties she remembered that the head nurse at Downton had requested some additional bandages from the storeroom, so she filled up a small sack to take with her.

To make it home before dark, she grabbed her hat, coat, and gloves and she started out through the village. Once into the lane, she took a deep breath of the fall air—the smell of pine and damp leaves was invigorating. Her legs were tired from standing all day, but she looked forward to a contemplative walk home. She especially liked the fall journeys when the leaves turned and the coming of winter was announced in each cool breeze. She was glad to be back working directly with recently injured patients—she still had much to learn about medical procedures. But the opportunity to gain greater nursing expertise was soon to disappear. She suspected that with the war ending soon the military hospital would close down in a matter of weeks and then what? Most likely it and its tiny staff of three would return to tending the maladies of local residents. And she would return to tending, well, not much of anything. She was baffled by the insignificant activities that used to occupy her day.

Also attendant with the end of the war, she would have to render a decision as to whether to leave with Branson. She loved him deeply but could she forsake the only people and place she had called home? _Was he right—would her family eventually come around or was he overly optimistic and she would lose them forever? Could she cause them anguish by marrying someone they would obviously disapprove of?_ She could imagine her grandmother's reaction of incredulity. She could hear Granny's biting response to the news her granddaughter intended to marry the chauffeur: _"Oh dear God, have you gone mad Sybil? Robert get Dr. Clarkson right away, she's obviously been nipping opium from the medical stores!"_ For weeks she had been weighing each little detail, every consequence and reaction, and these walks home gave her time to think it through.

As she went by Crawley house, she noticed the family motorcar in the drive and saw him wiping down the front grill of the blue Renault. She stopped for a moment to observe—admiring his broad shoulders and the raw physicality he displayed when doing his job—then ventured over to talk to him.

"Hello there," she yelled trying to catch his attention and swinging her parcel in front of her. "Mama having tea with Cousin Isobel?" she inquired.

"Yes, she is. I'm here for another hour or so," he stood up to greet her. He'd grown accustom to seeing her in a nurses uniform and he'd miss it once the war had ended—particularly its equalizing effect. "You're finishing up your shift and on your way home," he noted.

"I am," she replied.

"Is it still busy there?"

"Yes it's still busy. We no longer have a deluge of wounded, but there are still injured men, some badly in need of care."

"As they say: 'no rest for the weary.'"

She let out a long sigh, "truthfully I'm quite tired. It's been a tough shift and I'm looking forward to a hearty meal from Mrs. Patmore."

"Given your current state of fatigue, don't suppose I can offer you a ride home, milady?" he walked over and opened the car door for her to get in, a gesture that recalled their argument in the middle of the road some time ago.

"As you know I'm more than able of getting home on my own these days," she joked in return with her nose up in the air and hands firmly planted on her hips in a stance of defiance. "But thank you nonetheless for the generous offer," she giggled—grateful for the humor after a demanding day.

"I've not much to do here, how about I walk you through the village and to the road?" he offered. "And then you're on your own."

"I'd like that very much," she replied.

"Here, let me carry that for you," he took the sack from her hand.

"Thank you," she replied. She was glad to have his company if only for a little while, especially since they rarely found time alone together with their busy schedules and with the prospect of being under the watchful eyes of everyone at Downton. She was still somewhat embarrassed by her emotional confession, but he had not broached the subject of her feelings again. These past two months, he had been patient and respectful as promised. She greatly appreciated that he had given her a wide berth to sort out this difficult decision in her own good time.

He retrieved his hat and gloves from the front seat of the car and the two headed across the village green. In the public performance of their expected social roles, he walked about a half step behind her.

"From the sound of it, the war should be almost over," he began.

"Do you think there will be an armistice soon? I can't quite tell from the papers, but Papa thinks any day now."

"President Wilson has rejected an offer of armistice from Austria and Germany, it's a matter of a week, two weeks I think, early November perhaps."

"But why reject an offer of surrender?" she asked, "It doesn't make sense if the Allies are going to win anyway?"

"It's because Wilson believes in the right of a people to be sovereign. What's the point of the war if the same powers stay in place?"

"That is true."

"You see to his credit Wilson won't strike deal with an imperial state, he's said so in his fourteen points. The people have a right to govern themselves. It's a position that probably doesn't make our very own Mr. George happy. Monarchies have had their day is what I told a none-to-pleased Mr. Carson."

"Aha, of course—the right to sovereignty was at the root of Home Rule and the fight for independence," she deduced from his comment and nodded her head affirmatively.

"Precisely," he replied impressed by her quick mind and charmed by the way her forehead wrinkled when she was thinking something through. More than anything he was delighted to be discussing politics with her again. "On the subject of politics—what do you think will happen next about the right to vote? From what I can tell if only women over thirty, married with property can vote, then you're still not on equal standing with us men."

She did not respond right away and took a moment to formulate her answer. They had just walked by the apothecary and were almost out of the village.

"I'm glad some women can vote now, but you're absolutely right it should be on equal terms with men. I still cannot vote in the coming December elections."

"I suspect the demand for full suffrage will soon be back on the table once peace is declared."

"I've been thinking about this quite a bit lately. You know before the war the question of a woman's right to vote was an ideal to me—a cause worth fighting for but an ideal nonetheless."

"You latched onto that ideal rather quickly if I recall, sort of like a fish to water" he reminded her of when they first met.

"I couldn't have learned to swim without a very good tutor you know," she replied acknowledging his role in stoking her awareness of the issues. "Since the war women's rights is less an ideal and now a reality. Look around here even—women are doing everything because their men have been away," she gestured as they walked by a woman in trousers who carried a large scythe on her shoulder. "I mean take my sister. I could never have imagined Edith manning a tractor but she actually did it. So I say three cheers for her and all the other fearless women!" Sybil exclaimed proud of her sister's pluck.

"Indeed. Your sister was a determined novice I must say" he grinned as he remembered the close calls with his less-than-skilled driving student. "But she figured it out and put it to good use." They had just walked just outside of the village limits, which gave way to open fields of hay and wheat.

"With all we've done, how can men like my father expect us to go back to being dutiful wives and daughters? After all of this?" she asked speaking candidly about what was on her mind. These were observations and desires she had discussed with no one, but he made it so easy to be open about her private thoughts.

"I once told you that the world wouldn't be the same after the war," he reminded her of their conversation in York.

"And I once told you that I couldn't imagine going back to my life before the war began. We were both right. Honestly, I feel so alive, energized, engaged when I'm working," she said passionately. "But what shall I do?" she wondered aloud turning her head to look off in the distance at a field of late fall wheat where the woman with the scythe was now felling the tall golden stalks. She then looked over at him, "tell me, what did your mother do, you said that she worked?"

"She did work. When I was just a lad, when my father was alive, she worked at home. She was good at maths so she helped people with their businesses, balancing the books and such."

"That's how she looked after you and your brothers and sisters?"

"Yes. Then when Pa died, she took a position outside of the house. She worked in the accounting office at one of distilleries."

"That's an unusual position for a woman I must say."

"It was. By working for the railroad, Pa was a union man, so we received a small annuity when he died; but with six of us we needed more money coming in. Ma wanted us in school and not working. With five children, it wasn't easy for her, but she persevered. I admire her—she used her wits and smarts to find a good position," he told her.

"But she must have been down right exhausted when done after a long day? How ever did she cope?"

"Ma would come home tired as can be, but somehow she managed to care for us all. She kept a tight ship—we all had chores. One day she let my brother and me cook dinner," he began to chuckle, "you should've seen us, what a mess and we nearly burned down the house!"

"My word—sounds like me in Mrs. Patmore's kitchen," she joined him in laughter.

"She took it in stride though, took over, salvaged our disaster and made a proper dinner. Then she made sure we did our lessons, even the girls. And put us to bed."

"Does she still work there?"

"No, but she helps neighbors with their businesses some. My older sister is very much like her—good with numbers and last year she took over Ma's position at the distillery. I don't know how she cared for us all, but she did. She loved us more than anything else I suppose," he said in a voice filled with pride and deep gratitude.

"She sounds like a remarkable woman,"

"She is. Perhaps someday you'll meet," he offered alluding to their possible future.

"Perhaps we will," was all Sybil could say in response. His story had helped her understand what a life of work was like for women outside of service, but it also explained his profound respect for women and their abilities.

They stopped where the forest became dense and the road narrowed as it wound to the estate's gate. The sun was low and its beams sliced through tall trees. There was no one else on the road. They turned to face one another and bid farewell.

He was pleased that she could be honest with him—she had just revealed her inner most desires for where she wanted her life to go, which was clearly against the grain of her parents' wishes. He also reckoned that her desire to work was also at the heart of her deliberations about whether to leave with him or stay at Downton. To reassure her, he slowly raised his gloved hand and gently caressed her the cheek. Even after a long day of work, she was heart wrenchingly beautiful he observed. Her complexion glowed in the autumn afternoon light and her dark hair spilled from the back of her hat.

She closed her eyes at the pleasure of his touch and being close to him once again.

"Don't worry. You'll make the decision that is best for you…for us." he tenderly said to her.

She opened her eyes and smiled warmly.

"I'm here when you're ready to tell me," he handed her the sack of bandages. Their hands touched in the exchange. She held onto his as she bid "thank you…good-bye." She then turned away and walked down the road to Downton—deep in thought.

"Good-bye," he said as he watched her leave, adding _"Sybil"_ softly under his breath.

* * *

><p>Followed by two officers, she entered the great hall of Downton from the sitting room. He came in with other staff through the stair hall that led to the lower level. Neither had spoken to the other since the official news of the war's end. They stopped at the two ends of the hall. Oblivious to the din of activity swirling around them, they stared intently at one another. He smiled at her and nodded— in response, she batted her eyes and smiled at him.<p>

On this day of armistice, the order of things—the political beliefs and social mores—that had structured their world four years ago now stood in shambles. The war's aftermath offered an opportunity to build a different better world. He had stuck by her side all these years and she was grateful to have a friend and confidant who understood and supported her unorthodox views and desires. She had recognized their shared humanity and he valued her sincerity and willingness to meet him on equal terms. Words failed to characterize their profoundly deep and steadfast love. It was a bond so strong that each could feel the emotional connection across the crowded room. The war had ended, but for them it ushered in the prospect of a new beginning.

They found their respective places amidst the family, officers, and servants. Lord Grantham, standing proudly in his uniform for one of the last times, began his speech: "I think while the clock strikes, we should all make a silent prayer to mark the end of this terrible war…"

The clock chimed eleven times.

The war ended.

* * *

><p>It was soon to be spring—the first one after four years of senseless conflict. With the trees budding leaves and the streams full with the melting mountain snow, the spirit of change was in the air. Downton Abbey returned to its old routines or rather everyday life was recalibrated as close as it could come to some semblance of those older practices, albeit with far fewer servants and a host of new activities filling everyone's days above and below stairs.<p>

While he may not have supported the official rationale for the war, he respected the effort by Lord Grantham and his family to assist in the care for the wounded. The previous week, he had helped to disassemble the hospital beds and pack up other medical equipment. A caravan of trucks came to retrieve the military's gear. The magisterial house in less than one week had been cleared of all remnants of the convalescent home. Nurses, medical staff, and uniformed soldiers no longer passed through all corners of the house or roamed about the expansive grounds. Soon thereafter, the mixing of the served with the servants ceased as well—he no longer saw her fetching medical supplies from the store area near the kitchen. With the war's departure from Downton Abbey the sprawling estate seemed eerily peaceful. And now that the military hospital had also been decommissioned and returned to a small village hospital, she would no longer have her nursing duties to occupy her time. As he went about his own duties he wondered: _what she was doing all day_, _where was she in the cavernous house, and what was she thinking about?_

It was evening and he was in the garage finishing up some required adjustments to the cylinders of the Renault before he had to drive Mrs. Crawley, Miss Swire, and the Dowager Countess back their homes after they had dined with the family and Mr. Carlisle. His duties had more or less resumed their prewar schedule—trips to the village, to Ripon, and other nearby estates. With two motorcars in the family's possession, the estate's agent had hired a new footman, one who could also serve as an additional driver when needed. This new addition to the staff prompted thoughts about what he should be doing next with his life. The news from Ireland was filled with talk of new proposals for Ireland's independence from Great Britain. More radical parties and viewpoints were gaining momentum amongst the people and he was eager to play a part in these historic shifts. _After four years of brutal conflict lying to waste millions of precious lives might a peaceful transition to nationhood be in the offing? With his knowledge of politics and history what could he contribute to the cause? When should he leave Downton for Dublin and will she decide to come with him? _These thoughts raced through his mind as he tightened the last few nuts on the engine's carriage.

He heard the sound of footsteps, must be one of the groundskeepers he presumed. Much to his surprise she appeared in the doorway of the garage. He was startled and looked up from his work. She strolled in dressed in her evening gown—an unorthodox choice to visit the dusty garage. It either meant she had decided return to life as a lady in waiting, until some wealthy aristocrat offered his hand in marriage or that she wanted to beguile him in her alluring attire. Thrilled at her visit, he decided it must be the latter. "You look very fine," he complimented his guest.

"Everything I own is from my season before the war. I'm trying to wear them out," she offered in response. She seemed a bit nervous.

He was impressed by her pragmatism in her sartorial choices, but he was even more impressed by how the gown revealed the sensuous curves of her figure. The neckline exposed her graceful shoulders. She was wearing her hair slightly differently—it complimented her exquisite jawline. He'd never seen her more radiant.

"Where have you been all day?" she asked.

"Nowhere," he answered straightforwardly to her curious question. He tried to focus on her inquiry and not be distracted by her tempting presence. "I've just been busy," he added nervously.

"I envy you. I feel so flat after the rush and bustle of the last two years," she confessed of the boredom that now occupied her day. "They were sighing for the old days at dinner, but all I could do is think about how much more I want from life now than I did then," she expressed with great zeal her desire for a different life.

Given her enthusiasm at forsaking a life of leisure, he wondered if she had finally decided to leave home. He thought it'd be best to just ask her: "does this mean that you've made up your mind…at last?"

"No not quite, but almost," she told him—dashing his hopes once again.

As he looked away, she could feel his disappointment. She never meant to hurt him, quite the contrary she loved him too much to ever cause such distress. To reassure him she reached up and gently caressed his cheek.

He was surprised at her gesture of intimacy. Standing close, he thought she smelled of lavender, no it was more a delicate scent: violets. He wanted to feel the softness of her skin, the subtle heat of her body pressed against his. His desire for her had never been stronger. He reached up and took her hand, then gently kissed the back of it.

Her lips quivered momentarily. When they were close like this she felt a fire inside, a need to physically connect with him. Her attraction to him had grown more intense since she had revealed her feelings. It was a desire that could easily overtake all sensibility. She parted her lips, yearning to kiss him…

BRRRING…BRRRING…BRRRING—the shrill noise of the telephone resonated through the garage instantly disrupting the magnetic pull of the emerging unbridled passion between them.

"I'd—um—I'd best answer that," he told her letting her hand go.

She let out a deep breath. _What was she feeling for him—her heart raced, she felt suddenly warm in the cool air of the garage? Was her physical desire for him becoming stronger than she imagined or thought prudent?_ Perhaps it was just as well that the telephone call had interrupted what could have easily happened next.

"_Yes Mr. Carson…yes I'll be right there…thank you,"_ he spoke into the receiver. He turned around to address her, "I must go. Your grandmother, Miss Swire, and Mrs. Crawley are ready to return home." But what should he do with his unexpected guest? "Shall I drive you up to the house?" he offered.

"Ahem," she cleared her voice and rubbed her arms. "No it might be best if I walked back up to the house," she replied not wanting to field questions from her parents or the staff about why she had visited the garage at this time of the night.

"Of course, right then," he said reaching for his jacket in the front seat of the motorcar. "Oh! Here, this is for you," he grabbed a paper from the seat, "I thought you might want to read this." He handed her the latest issue of the _Worker's Dreadnaught_ dedicated to the demands for women's equality.

She looked at the radical newspaper's headlines. She was ecstatic to find out more about the latest post-general election regrouping of the movement. It gave her a sense of new prospects, new work to be done. "Tom!" she blurted out, "how did you know?" She looked at him stupefied, somehow he always knew what she needed—_how could he not be an integral part of my life?_

"I think you know why," he replied equally taken aback that she had called him by his first name. "Goodnight then," he bid to her as he shut the engine cover and bent down to start to motorcar.

"Goodnight," she beamed still giddy from their recent encounter. She turned around to exit the garage and uttered _"Tom"_ softly under her breath as the hum of the Renault filled the garage.


	8. Will You?

_This chapter goes over some very familiar territory, but fills in annoying major potholes along the way (Mr. Fellowes apologies for borrowing). It's great to know what you think and what should happen next, since I'm making this up as I go along. I appreciate your comments and reviews, to paraphrase Tom in this chapter, I'm "grateful for your kind words." Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 8 – Will you?<p>

She raced down the back stair and through the hallway to the servant's entrance. "Oh! I'm so sorry," she gasped as she almost pummeled Anna, who was carrying a tray of wine glasses.

Anna carefully balanced the precious crystal as she gracefully maneuvered around Lady Sybil. "Milady, it's wonderful news about Mr. Crawley," Anna buoyantly congratulated Lady Sybil noticing that the young woman appeared to be in a hurry somewhere. Sensing the urgency in her voice, Anna then asked, "You seem in a tizzy—is everything alright—can I help?"

Anxious, Sybil didn't know what to say at her discovery, but she was sure she wanted no one to know her whereabouts. "Anna, if anyone asks where I am—tell them I went to my room with a headache. Will you do that for me? Please?"

"Yes of course milady," Anna agreed. Although she was curious about where an obviously excited Lady Sybil was rushing off to donning only her evening dress and clearly not exiting through the front door. Anna didn't quite know what to make from her request, but given her giddy mood at least the young woman's haste to flee the house did not seem to stem from anything unpleasant. From what she had previously observed, Anna could only guess that Lady Sybil was headed to the garage—to see her friend the chauffeur. Besides the positive news about Mr. Crawley, which could certainly wait till morning, what could they be discussing at this time of night? There was clearly something afoot.

"Thank you Anna—I'm forever in your debt." Sybil replied. "Oh, and I'm fine, actually more than fine!" she glowingly stated, before she ran up the stair, through the door, and out into the night.

The crisp late winter air was refreshing after the rush of excitement earlier in the evening. She needed to escape the confines of the house and the demands of familial obligations. She was pleased about the reversal of Matthew's predicament and that he would soon achieve a full recovery. The family was quite naturally happy at this fortunate turn of events, especially after the turmoil of the past few years.

But with that miraculous news came the other surprising news that he was soon to marry Lavinia. Poor Mary had to endure the very public announcement that Matthew would marry a woman he obviously did not love. She could feel her sister's heartbreak and had nothing but sympathy for Mary at that difficult tortuous moment. And yet, even though Mary loved Matthew, she too seemed willing to marry a man she did not love—the reptilian Richard Carlisle. _But what motivated Matthew and Mary's willingness to forfeit their future happiness? Was it some misplaced sense of honor and obligation to family, to what society expected of them? Or were there other more nefarious forces at play?_ She didn't know which was true, but she was certain, however, that she wasn't going to make the same mistake. She didn't want to be trapped in a miserable marriage brought about by a misplaced sense of duty.

She loved Branson. He had been patient, supportive, and most importantly a friend. She wanted him and all that a life with him would entail. She wanted to work and feel she contributed to the world in some meaningful fashion. It may not have been what her parents planned for her, but it was the life she wanted for herself. Finally she was sure about who and what would make her happy. She had gathered the courage to follow her heart and mind. And she was ready to tell him at last.

She found him in the garage waiting to make his last trip for the evening, which was to return the unexpected dinner guests back to the village.

* * *

><p>He was surprised at his impromptu visitor, who appeared once again wearing her evening attire. This time she came to him quite late in the evening—usually when the family and guests assembled for after dinner refreshment. He wondered what could have brought her here. "You're very late, won't they worry?" he greeted her as he folded his paper. In the subtle glow of the nearby kerosene lamp, she looked particularly striking in her black and gold gown. The flicker of the lamp made her complexion glow and her lips appeared red and full. Regardless of her motives, he was thrilled at her presence.<p>

"They're all so excited they won't care where I am," she answered. She strode in filled with determination and stood close to him.

"I'm pleased," he nodded, "I like Mr. Matthew."

She launched immediately into what she needed to tell him: "He announced at dinner that he wants to get married at Downton. Somehow it made me feel more than ever that the war is really over and its time to move forward."

He was surprised to hear her declaration. "Do you mean you've made your decision?" he hoped.

"Yes," she nodded, looking longingly into his eyes. "My answer is …

He steeled himself for whatever was coming next.

She followed with: "that I'm ready to travel and you're my ticket," she broke into a wide grin, "to get away from this house, away from this life!"

He could barely register the truth of what she was saying—had she really chosen him over her family: "Me?"

"No," she teased. "Uncle Tom Cobley!" she giggled.

He joined her in laughter, but he still couldn't fathom that she was willing to leave Downton and her family. He knew she loved him, but he wasn't sure that given their vastly different social castes if she was willing to marry him. "I'm sorry, but I've waited so long for those words. I can't believe I'm hearing them!" He wanted to make sure she understood the consequences of what she was about to embark upon. He asked her "You won't mind burning your bridges?"

"Mind? Fetch me the matches!" she reassured him in a frenzy of excitement.

He leaned in to kiss her, but he hesitated–still somewhat shocked by her revelation.

"Yes, you can kiss me," she exclaimed wanting him, desperately needing to feel his arms around her. Joy overflowed every corner of her soul. But given the intensity of her desire for him, she also was keenly aware that she had to keep her (and his) passions in check. She added, "but that is all until everything is settled."

"For now God knows it's enough that I can kiss you," he whispered as he reached his hand to caress her face and neck. Her skin was soft and dewy. Touching her at last, his heart leapt into a realm of ecstasy he could never have imagined.

Their lips met tenderly. Her arms reached around his body to grasp his muscular shoulders. She inhaled the bliss of his closeness. He grabbed the delicate small of her back and pulled her nearer. Their mouths parted passionately to taste the pleasure of forbidden desire. Their union tore down all the walls of social rank that had kept them apart for many years.

After a few seconds, they drew away from of their first kiss but remained in each other's embrace—enraptured by this new physical bond that enhanced their already deep emotional tie. She closed her eyes and rested her head gently on his shoulder. His cheek brushed against the softness of her dark wavy hair. Time was paced by the rise and fall of the other's breathing.

He pulled away. He gazed into the depths of her blue eyes and witnessed a joy that affected him profoundly.

Her hands grasped his lower back and she could feel the tautness of his body. She blushed at the thrill of their growing intimacy.

Neither spoke. They knew that words could not capture what each felt at that moment. They had spent years talking about everything and everyone except the one thing that drew them together—love. There was nothing more to say. She slid her hands around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. This time their tongues met in a dance of passion. It was if one could breathe through the other. Their desire crossed into a feverish state. Eventually they drew apart breathing heavily.

He felt the passion stirring and needed to slow down. He gently kissed her cheek then her neck.

Her head dropped back, she uttered a low cry, "Ahhh." She'd never felt anything so pleasing.

He could feel her tremble in his arms. "You must be cold," he said in a hush voice.

"I'm fine," she answered softly—in fact it was quite the opposite of his assertion, she felt warm, flush—a response to the awakening of her inner desires.

"Let me get my jacket," he offered as he stepped away to retrieve his uniform from its hanger near the door. He returned and draped it gently around her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said quietly—never taking her eyes off him. Her heart raced and she felt almost numb, but in a good way, stunned that she could be so happy, feel such pleasure.

"Come," he said taking her by the hand.

"Where?" she wondered.

He didn't take her far. He opened the door of the Renault and they climbed into the back.

"Good thinking—a place to sit," she complimented his clever choice.

"So we can talk about what's next," he suggested as they sat down in the back seat. He held her hand.

"Next? I don't want this moment to end," she implored squeezing his hand.

"Believe me, I don't either," he replied in a low voice. He raised his other hand to caress her cheek then he leaned in to gently brush his lips to hers. "But we don't have much time tonight before you'll go missing and I have to leave."

"Never leave me—will you promise?"

"I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

"No, what I mean is…" she hesitated. "I wish I could stay. I wish we were already husband and wife," she spoke honestly of her desire for him and need for greater intimacy.

He took a deep breath. "Yes, I do want you in every way, I've wanted you for so long," he revealed of his own passions. If she only knew how difficult it had been longing to kiss her, wanting to make love to her all these years, but constantly having to maintain a proper, chaste distance. "But you are right, we must wait."

"Can't we run away?"

"To get married?"

"Yes now. Go to Gretna Green or some place like that?"

"Sybil you don't mean like in an Austen novel do you?" he raised a brow and questioned her unorthodox suggestion.

She laughed at his literary association.

"So you agree then, that it's a bit, well, melodramatic?" he asked.

"No, I think it's a very reasonable idea. And I'm laughing because it's the first time you've called me 'Sybil!'"

"Oh, I suppose I did. I'm glad I can finally call you by your first name," he too smiled; he loved the way she discerned the smallest details of their interactions.

"You'll have the rest of your life to wear out my name," she told him as she brought his hand to her face. She closed her eyes enjoying warmth of his touch.

"Now as to your plan, is this really what you want?"

"It is. We've already waited long enough to be sure that being together is right. I want us to be married as soon as possible."

He thought about the logistics. "We could take this car…I reckon we could drive there in about five hours, maybe six."

"When can we leave?" she asked excitedly.

"Well I imagine if we left in the evening we'd be there by morning?"

"They wouldn't miss me or you till morning—by then we'd be married."

"Yes, we'll be married," he confirmed. Saying it helped him absorb that it was really happening.

"We'll elope then!" she gushed, ecstatic about their decision.

They worked out the best day and how they would manage their respective professional and personal responsibilities in order to slip out of the house undetected. When done hatching their elopement plans, he put his arm around her and still wrapped in his jacket she nestled into his side. They sat quietly for a few minutes relishing the closeness and their newfound happiness.

To hear her voice so near, to touch her, smell her scent, caress her delicate curves—he could have never imagined such happiness. But he also had to remember that each still had obligations and that they would have to proceed with the utmost care and caution. Their plan was incendiary, to say the least. He hoped (but knew it was futile) that their marriage would not instigate a complete upheaval in the order of both upstairs and downstairs. "I'd best get you back to the house," he whispered as she pulled away from him.

"Yes," she sighed looking into his eyes, "you're right. I should go." She hated having to part from him.

The reality of their situation was slowly insinuating itself into their perfect moment of romantic bliss.

He opened the car door and helped her out. Both took a deep breath as they left the intimate confines of the Renault and stepped back into the world of Downton. They turned to face one another. He took both her hands and drew her close to him. "Will you forgive me Sybil? I'm an inattentive man," he began.

"For what? Have we forgotten something? Let's see…" she began to retrace their plans.

"We've made plans to wed, but I don't think I've ever asked you!"

She laughed at his admission.

"So I should ask then. Sybil, will you marry me?" he proposed bringing her hands to his lips and kissing them gently.

"Yes, Tom—I will!" she answered enthusiastically.

They kissed one last time to acknowledge the commitment they had made to building their future together.

* * *

><p>Everyone was in high spirits as his four passengers chatted away in the rear of the vehicle. It had been a momentous evening for everyone at Downton—for them the very public disclosure of Mr. Crawley's recovery and pending marriage and for him the very private revelation of Sybil's desire to share a life. He would soon be related by marriage to all but one of his passengers. He thought about this yet to be known coincidence as he engaged the brake and the large towncar came to a stop in front of Crawley House. He had already returned Dr. Clarkson to his home and followed by the Dowager Countess to the Dower House. He now delivered the last two passengers to their destination. <em>What would they think of the news that he and Sybil are to wed?<em>

Mr. Moseley came around and opened the rear door for Miss Swire to exit the vehicle. He climbed out and assisted Isobel from the large motorcar.

Before she departed he wanted to offer congratulations on her son's good news. "Mrs. Crawley, please accept my best wishes on your son's promising recovery. Tis nothing short of a miracle."

"Thank you Branson. It is indeed nothing short of a miracle," she replied ecstatic about her son's turnaround. Then she whispered, "And of course you have heard that he and Miss Swire are soon to be married? They will be wed at Downton in the spring."

"Yes, this is also excellent news, you must be pleased," he told Isobel as he noticed her newfound optimism since her son's dire injury. He had always admired her empathy and dedication to helping others less fortunate.

"Truthfully, I'm glad that some good can come from the immeasurable cost of this horrible war," she said introspectively. "I know you could not serve because of your heart. But perhaps God spared you to do good in some other way. There is so much still wrong with the world in need of fixing," she said reassuringly to him.

"There is still much to do. It's wonderful that your son will have a full and happy life," he replied grateful for her kind words. "Madam," he bid as he bowed slightly as expected of the chauffeur.

"Goodnight Branson, be well," Isobel replied as she turned and headed up the walk to Crawley House.

He climbed behind the wheel, put the car in gear, and drove through the village back to Downton. He had made this trip many times in the past six years. Being alone in the car at the end of a long day always afforded him the opportunity to contemplate the state of the world. Mrs. Crawley was insightful with her observation that there was _"so much still wrong with the world in need of fixing." But how and where to begin,_ he pondered. _What would he do with his life—soon-to-be their lives—after he vacated his position Downton?_ He had been considering many possible options, but now the onus was on him to actually find a different line of work. He had been keeping a journal of his thoughts about the war, pacifism, class conflict, women's suffrage, Irish independence, the Russian Revolution, and a host of other issues related to the plight of workers, the poor, and women. Thanks to the generosity of Lord Grantham, he had capitalized on having access to Downton's excellent library. In his journal, he jotted meticulous notes about the myriad of new ideas and philosophies he discovered in the books he borrowed. Perhaps he could cobble these ruminations and observations together in writings that might be publishable. His views, particularly ones that might advocate the use of peaceful means in Ireland's quest to gain sovereignty, could be of interest to the editors of the various monthlies, weeklies, and daily newspapers published out of Dublin. With that established as a goal, he was eager to return to his cottage and begin composing these potential articles and essays. From here on, all he could do is try and wait to see what happens.

He could hardly believe his own extraordinary turn of fate—that she had agreed to spend her life with him. He sped the car up to forty miles per hour as he wound down the narrow road. Its engine whirled like his racing heart—its pulse fueled his sense of hope and anticipation for a prosperous future with the woman he loved.


	9. Can't We Go On?

_A tough one to fill—this part of episode 7 defies all logic. Thanks again for the reviews, comments, and suggestions—they are helpful in figuring this out. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 9 – Can't We Go On?<p>

Branson stopped the Renault just outside the gates of Downton. He put on the handbrake, then got out of the vehicle and walked back to the rear passenger door. He opened it.

"Right. Sorry you had lay down back there, but I thought it best you weren't seen. Not too bad I hope?" he asked Sybil as she sat up. He held out his hand and helped her get out.

"Umm, I survived. Glad we left quickly and quietly," she replied as she straightened her coat and adjusted her hat. "And I'm more than fine now that we're on our way," she grinned and walked up to front seat.

"I think you should stay in back. It'll be warmer," he cautioned.

She put her hands on her hips in a familiar gesture. "Tom, I'm sitting next to you. We could debate this all night or we could leave Downton?" she countered.

"No use then, I can see already I'm not going to win this one," he kissed her cheek. "Let's be off," he suggested as he climbed in behind the wheel and grabbed her hand to pull her inside. "With your stubbornness as my old friend, I brought this anyways," he joked as he handed her a blanket to keep her warm in the open cab. They were finally on their way to be married in Gretna Green.*

"I saw that you retrieved my suitcase," she observed of her luggage in the back seat.

"Yes, I found it where we decided you should leave it."

"You should have seen me this morning—skulking about with a candle before the housemaids got up to start the fires. But I'm fairly sure nobody saw me," she apprised him.

"Good. And tonight? You made your excuses tonight?"

"With everyone in the drawing room and the staff preparing to serve dinner, I was able to slip out and wait for you. I told Anna I wasn't well and not going to make it down to dinner. Mary's entertaining Richard Carlisle. Granny will divert Edith's attention. They're all still beside themselves about Matthew's recovery and wedding—no one will notice my absence. Anyway, because I've been at such loose ends now that the war is over I rather blend in with the curtains. It's been so excruciatingly dull not working."

"Well all that's about to change," he reminded her.

"I know. I'm excited. No ecstatic!" she replied as she reached over to touch his forearm.

He looked over and smiled.

"And you?" she asked. "You made your excuses tonight?"

"I did indeed," he replied. "I asked Edward to drive the guests back to the village after dinner. I told him that your father had requested that I go to Ripon on a confidential errand for his solicitor and that I'd be back in the morning. Since I don't report to Mr. Carson directly, Edward won't ask him any questions. Hopefully no one will be looking for either me or you till mid-morning," he told her.

She let out a sigh. "Let's hope not," she said under her breath.

"What's that sigh for?"

"I should tell you," she began tentatively.

"Tell me what?" he wondered as he shifted gears and sped along the road heading northwest away from the village.

"I should tell you that I left a letter for my family in my room. I locked the door. They won't find it—I hope—until tomorrow morning," she revealed as a hint of panic crept into her voice.

"You told them what we are doing?" he said surprised at her actions. "I thought we were going to return to Downton and tell them all together—as husband and wife?"

"I know that's what we said. But I couldn't leave them wondering why I left. I couldn't let them worry about me for one minute—I thought that'd be too cruel. I wanted them to know that I'm safe, I was with you, and it's what I want."

"Argh," he grumbled.

"You're not too angry at me?"

"I…" he began considering the likely outcomes of her decision.

"I love my family. They're going to feel betrayed. I had to try to soften the blow," she defended her decision.

"I do, I do understand," he nodded. "I'm not sure it was wise though—its just going to cause a panic upstairs and downstairs, most likely they'll come after us sooner rather than later."

"I didn't think about that," she realized. "I'm sorry."

"But I do understand you love them, they're your family and it's difficult to part from them," he said softening a bit. "I guess it's why I'm driving all the way to Gretna Green in the middle of the night to marry a woman with the most loving heart in the world," he reassured her and reached over to squeeze her hand.

He shifted gears and they sped onward into the night.

* * *

><p>The car slowed down in front of a small roadside inn.<p>

"I suspect it's close to half past ten, maybe even eleven o'clock. We've both had full days, let's say we get some rest and leave at daybreak?" he asked her as he noticed her yawning.

"Can't we go on? I just want to get there," she replied.

"We are more than halfway there. If we keep going we'll arrive well after midnight and then what? Most places will already be closed. Can't sleep in the car—we'll be frozen in the morning. Best to stop here I think."

"Really? I don't…" she hesitated, as her mind raced through all the repercussions of spending a night with him—unmarried. First, she was worried about what her family might think if they were found out, but more to heart of the matter she was unsure of her own ability to keep her desire for him under control. As a modern woman, she believed she had the right to explore and feel her own sexual urges. She was torn_—why didn't she think this through, what should she do?_

"It will be fine, trust me," he assured her—wondering if she was nervous about spending the night in a room alone with him. He loved her enough to respect her honor and after six years he could contain his passions for at least one more night. "Come on, let's go in," he reached across her lap and unlatched the door.

She climbed out first and he followed. He retrieved their bags from the back of the motorcar. The two walked into the inn. They entered a foyer that was sparingly decorated with a long wooden counter in front of an alcove. They looked about, but saw no one nearby.

"Hello," he spoke loudly. "Is anyone about?"

"Be right there," came voice from a doorway. "Oh hello, where did you come from this time of night?" inquired a tall thin man, whose head almost grazed the ceiling as his lanky frame maneuvered behind the wooden counter.

"We just arrived," he told the innkeeper taking off his hat and placing their bags off to the side.

"Ay, you're in luck as I was shutting up the downstairs, about to turn in. Welcome to the Swan Inn, what can I do for you two travelers?" the innkeeper asked as he reached for small round eyeglasses that sat on a nearby shelf.

While Branson negotiated their accommodations, Sybil surveyed the adjacent room, must be the parlor she thought. She noticed a small dining area through a door. The parlor's well-worn furniture lent the tidy space the feel of a hunting lodge, one she remembered from a nearby estate. The once robust evening fire in the parlor's large hearth had been reduced to a pile of glowing embers.

"Happy we made it here in time. We're both tired, long day I'm afraid," Branson told the man.

"Not from around these parts are you?" the innkeeper inquired as he detected Branson's Irish brogue. The man dropped a well-worn book on the counter and opened it.

"No, I'm not originally from England, but we live not far from Ripon," he answered thinking it best not to give away too much about who they were in the event someone came looking for them. He looked over at Sybil to check on how she was faring. She was fiddling with her hat, looking about the room. "How are you?" he asked her.

"I'm fine, a little hungry maybe," she answered softly and looked over at him with a slight smile. She had rarely seen him out of uniform. He looked different in a suit; its cut was less exaggerated than his dark green uniform and she could get a better sense of his physique. Daydreaming, she bit her lip at the prospect of what was beneath all those layers.

The innkeeper found the page in his guest ledger. "Right, you'll be wanting a room, for how long?" the man asked looking up from the book.

"Um yes, one" he said nervously. "One room for one night."

"Can certainly provide that for you and the lovely missus there. And if you're hungry might be able to get you some pie and a little ale—how about that? I'll throw a log on the fire to warm you both up," he asked as he rotated the book for Branson to sign.

"I'd appreciate that thank you," he confirmed. "We both thank you."

"The name is Joseph Carter—my wife Ethel and I run this fine inn," the tall man said proudly of his roadside establishment. "Please to have you for the night," the innkeeper conveyed looking down at the book, "a Mr. and Mrs. Branson."

He turned around and winked. She blushed slightly and her heart skipped a beat at hearing her future name aloud for the first time _"Mrs. Branson."_

* * *

><p>After they had a small repast in the parlor, the innkeeper showed them to a room on the second floor. Mr. Carter unlocked the door, put the bags on the bench at the foot of the bed then bid them good night.<p>

It was a somewhat dowdy room. Small electric wall sconces lit its confines giving the green patterned wallpaper a curious glow. A large bed sat in the center of the room and one well-worn chair, like those in the parlor below, was placed off to the side.

He walked in and looked around, "I suppose it'll have to do for one night." In light of her comfortable life at Downton and London, he wondered if besides her time at York whether she had ever spent the night in such modest accommodations.

She followed him into the room, but could not avert her gaze from the large bed. _What were they going to do—share it?_

"Sybil," he turned around. "I realize this must be very awkward for you. I have plan: you can sleep on the bed, I'll take the chair over there," he pointed to the chair next to the bed.

She let out a sigh of relief at this thoughtful suggestion. "Are you sure, you won't be very comfortable?"

"I'm sure and I'll be fine. And just so things stay 'proper' might I suggest we stay in our clothes. How does that sound?" he offered trying to allay her fears.

He made everything so easy. She walked over and put her arms around his shoulders, "I don't know what I did to deserve you. You are remarkable you know?"

"No, I am the lucky one to have your gift of love," he told before he leaned in to kiss her sweetly. _My god, I so want you, _he thought he looked down at her inviting lips. He took a deep breath and pulled away with his hands holding her upper arms. He looked into her eyes and said: "We should get some sleep before our special day tomorrow." He gently kissed her forehead.

"Yes, sleep, then the sooner tomorrow will be here," she replied smiling lovingly at him. He helped her with her coat and he hung it in the large wardrobe. She then sat down on the end of the bench. She watched him as he took off his jacket and loosened his tie. _Impressive, _she observed before trying to refocus on why she sat down in the first place.

He searched the wardrobe looking for an extra blanket then began opening the dresser drawers. He found one in the bottom drawer. He turned out the sconces and sat down in the chair. He noticed that she was unpinning her hair. With each removal of a pin, a section of her wavy raven hair cascaded down her back. He took a deep breath, _magnificent_ he thought while trying to get comfortable.

She stood up and went to her suitcase and rifled around for her hairbrush. She then sat on the bed next to him and began to brush out her curls. "I remember as a little girl I thought that brushing your hair made it stop growing," she revealed.

"Where did you come up with that harebrained notion?" he asked.

"It just made sense," she said as she continued her strokes. "I wouldn't let anyone come near my hair for almost two months. Needless to say my hair eventually became a tangled mess. Mama had it cut off—I cried for an entire week. I ended up with no hair instead of long hair," she giggled.

"Precocious even then—lesson learned?"

"Well I never did that again. One hundred strokes every night" she said as she brushed away. "Oh and you were the perfect child I suppose, never got into trouble?"

"Oh trouble found me from time to time," he cracked a smile.

"Like what? Tell me," she wondered.

"Um, here's one. I liked to figure out how things worked. Before he died I was always following Pa around trying to help him fix things and the like. So when we first got plumbing in the house my older brother thought that what you put down the pipe came out in the other room. I bet him it didn't and I could show him how. So he could see that nothing was going to come out we took apart the pipes below the kitchen-sink."

"You didn't!" she gasped.

"Oh, the experiment got much worse, I had my brother flush one of our balls down the wash basin. Pa came home after a hard day's work to one clogged and one dismantled sink. I guess I too learned my lesson—that I wasn't going to be a plumber when I grew up!"

She laughed heartily as she tied her hair back, "well I for one am glad you didn't become a plumber, otherwise I don't think we'd have kept you around Downton for very long."

"Tis true!" he laughed with her. "Now let's get some rest," he said and held out his hand for hers. He had never been so happy than at this moment. Life felt on the threshold of new wonderful possibilities. He leaned forward and gently kissed her hand, "goodnight Sybil."

"Goodnight Tom," she said tenderly as she lay back and pulled the blanket over her. She reached over to turn out the bedside lamp. She felt safe and loved. More than anything being here with him felt right.

As they both drifted off to sleep, they suddenly heard footsteps ascending the stairs. Next, a loud knock awoke them. The door creaked open and in barged Mary, followed by Edith.

* * *

><p>He closed the room's door. He was crestfallen.<p>

_Her sisters–blast them!_

Dumbfounded, he paced the floor

_What just happened? _

He walked back.

_Did she really leave with them? What was she feeling? Was she disappointed or relieved?_

He stopped.

_We're committed to being together, should I chase after them?_

_That would only make matters worse. It was her decision to leave_, he reminded himself.

She promised she would stay true to him and he would have to take her word for it. After all he believed in her and their future together. They would have to figure out another plan to be married—but how, when, and where?

He sat down on the bed with his head in his hands. One mistake he realized was that he should have driven the towncar. They could have made it to Gretna Green faster and her sisters would have taken longer in the Renault. Water under the bridge, he thought.

In the end regardless of what they chose to drive, their plan was not fully considered. Perhaps it was best to wait and tell her parents first. As much as he was loathe to admit it, Lady Mary was right—it was better to address the family's objections head on than to sneak around behind everyone's back. Of course they will argue that she's above his station and that he would never be able to provide for her in the manner to which she had grown accustom, but those were antiquated ideals. He knew he made her happy and it was the life she wanted.

Her family wasn't the only immediate obstacle he had to confront. He would also have to contend with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes' ire. They had a right to know and he would have to tell them. Like Lord and Lady Grantham, they will also object to the marriage, most likely accusing him of having betrayed his loyalties and respect for service by crossing the carefully maintained boundary between them and their so-called social betters. Eventually he would also have to inform his mother and siblings. These confrontations were not what he wanted, but it was now the reality of their situation.

He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. The pillow still smelled faintly of her, of violets and he could still imagine her present with him.

* * *

><p>She was cold. She sat silently in the back seat. Mary sat on the other side.<p>

_Today we were to be married,_ she lamented.

"Sybil," Mary called out. "Sybil I'm sorry it had to be this way, but we had to stop you from ruining your life."

She ignored her sister's admonishment. She missed him terribly:_ was he all right, what was he thinking?_

"Has the cat got your tongue?"

She stared out of the window into the darkness.

"How could you be so reckless and unthinking, eloping with him—of all men?" Mary implored her.

She looked over and glared at her sister.

"Oh so now I finally have your attention, well that's a start."

"Why did you come after us, it's my decision not yours," she spoke up.

"Because you are making a big mistake—how could you?" her older sister chided.

"How could I what? I did nothing wrong in wanting to marry a man I happen to love. It's as simple as that," she defended her decision.

"Simple? Don't be so naïve little sister. I warned you and you promised not to do anything rash—but you ignored me and ran off with him anyway. I trust you didn't do anything you'd regret?" Mary upbraided her.

"Nothing happened back there. He was honorable, the perfect gentleman," she informed her sister.

"Good God, listen to you 'gentleman'? My dear he's the bloody chauffeur!"

"Well this proves me right, that my family will never accept him, so what other option did we have but to elope?" she asked.

"Not to marry him of course," Mary replied.

"The only wrong I've done was not telling our parents—on that score you were right. And I agree with you lies are never good as they only lead to more lies. I'm not—no, we're not going to start our life together on a mountain of deceit. That I can assure you."

Mary said nothing.

"You can't dissuade me from marrying Tom. He's an honest and caring man, who makes me happy—I don't want anything more. I'm not you. I don't need the money, the grand house, the jewels, the fine clothes, or the servants. I want a life of work, of doing something meaningful. We will be together and nothing you or anyone else can say will stop us," she vehemently told them.

This she realized would be the first of many defenses. She may lose her family forever, but it was a risk she was willing to take for the sake of her own happiness.

She said nothing more to her sisters and Anna as they reversed the path to happiness she had just travelled with him a few hours earlier. While staring into the pitch-black night she could still feel his warm embrace and hear the reassurance in his voice. She smiled—she was in love and knew she would never be alone again.

* * *

><p><em>*As many folks have googled and Scarlet Court brought to my attention – at this time you had to establish a 21-day residency at Gretna Green to be married. I am assuming JF makes this their destination to show that their scheme was completely half-baked and conceived in a rush.<em>


	10. But Where?

_Episodes 7 and 8 are so full of gaps in the story—it's like trying to fill the Grand Canyon. As such I think two more chapters are in order, maybe three since I'm totally into figuring out this puzzle. Thanks Kaliadescopiopia for the excellent suggestions for this one. And thanks for the insightful reviews, gracious comments, and excellent directions to where the holes in this ship might be. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 10 – But Where?<p>

"Tom!" Sybil cried out as she was suddenly jarred awake.

She turned her head left as she gradually opened her eyes. _Where is he? _She panicked as she became aware that he was no longer next to her.

_He was with me last night…in the inn…the green wallpaper…there was a tall man Mr. Carter who gave us a meal…we talked…we laughed…he held me in his arms…kissed my hand…goodnight…was it all just a dream?_

She rubbed her eyes, trying to get her bearings. A sliver of daylight cut through the familiar ivory colored curtains.

Next, she pulled herself up in the bed. She was still wearing her clothes from yesterday. Her body felt as if she'd worked three back-to-back shifts in the wards. She felt emotionally spent.

_I remember now, my sisters interceded;_ _they brought me back home. I'm back again at Downton, in my bedroom._ She looked around at the familiar trappings of the domicile that she had happily forsaken the day before.

_But where is he? He must have come back by now it's morning?_ Her heart was beating wildly.

_Calm down,_ she told herself. _He's here…somewhere…I know he is…I can feel him near._

She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her head. She glanced onto her side table to notice a folded piece of paper with his name on it. It was all coming back to her.

Her sisters had brought her home. They came through the servant's entrance and quietly made their way up the back stairs so as not to disturb their parents. Edith and Mary escorted her to her bedroom. Anna had brought in her suitcase and sat it on the floor. She looked up and there it was next to the wardrobe. She remembered Mary saying, _"Sybil, it will all be much clearer in the morning. We won't tell Mama and Papa—you're an adult we'll leave that decision to you. We only hope that with time you'll come to your senses."_ The door closed.

Once they left her alone, she sat down at her desk and began to write him a brief note saying all the things that she could not tell him in front of her sisters. That was the folded piece of paper on her side table. When done writing, it was close to five o'clock, she curled up on the bed in her clothes. Her mind raced through everything that had happened—good and bad. Eventually exhaustion shut down her thoughts and she fell into a deep sleep.

She could see by the clock it was now beyond mid-morning creeping toward noontime. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK—startled her. Anna's head peeked around the door.

"Milady, I just wanted to check in on you. You were fast asleep an hour ago and I didn't want to wake you for breakfast. I told her Ladyship you still weren't quite feeling your best yet," Anna greeted her.

"Thank you Anna. Where is Tom—is Mr. Branson all right?" she immediately queried the head housemaid who walked into the room with a towel draped over her arm.

"Poor thing, you slept in your clothes. I've drawn a hot bath for you. I think you could use it after yesterday," was all Anna conveyed as she placed the towel at the foot of the bed.

"Why won't you tell me where he is? Did my sisters ask you to keep me in the dark? It's no use you know," she beseeched Anna.

Anna sighed, "Milady, Mr. Branson came back this morning. He's already taken his Lordship to see Mr. Coburn I believe. So you see there's no conspiracy." Anna went over to the windows and opened the drapes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to draw you into this, especially last night," she apologized. "Ugh, I imagine its only going to get worse when my parents hear the news," she held her head in her hands.

"Or they could not find out," Anna posed quizzically.

"What do you mean—elope again?" she asked assuming Anna was in her corner. "I'm not sure I have the stomach to do this again."

"No I mean _not_ marry Mr. Branson," she suggested.

"But why not?"

Anna had observed their blossoming friendship. She thought it was harmless at first, so long as each stayed in their respective place and never crossed the line of propriety between mistress and servant. But over time she could sense and even witnessed that something more was developing between the youngest daughter of her employer and the estate's chauffeur. She could have never imagined that they would run off to be married. She was as shocked to read Lady Sybil's farewell letter as Lady Mary was. _What were they thinking,_ Anna kept wondering as they hotly pursued the lovers' trail last night. "You two come from such different worlds," Anna reasoned—it seemed common sense.

"That might have been true before the war, but none of that matters anymore. We're going to build a new world together," Sybil said earnestly.

"Do you think that's possible? You're going to give up so much, everything really."

She surveyed her bedroom and its contents and said, "But that's just it—they're all just things." She looked back at Anna, "Well perhaps not my family. I don't want to lose them. I want us all to remain on good terms. But if they give me an ultimatum—I'll choose Tom."

"You'd choose Mr. Branson over your family?"

"I will," she replied resolutely.

"If you don't mind my asking—why would you make such a major sacrifice?"

"Isn't it obvious," she smiled. "Because I love him." It felt liberating to express her emotions out loud to someone. She was in love with him and she wasn't ashamed of it.

Grasping the sincerity of Sybil's declaration, Anna looked down for a moment then commented, "love's a powerful emotion I guess?"

"Wouldn't you do anything for Mr. Bates?"

"I think I see your point, milady" Anna nodded and moved toward the door not wanting to discuss her own romantic turmoil. "Your bath's ready when you are. I'll unpack your bag while you're bathing."

"Thank you," she replied.

The head housemaid opened the door.

"Anna, one moment please?"

"Yes milady?"

"I know I shouldn't ask this of you, but would you give this to Tom, when you see him?" she picked up the letter and offered it to her. "I don't want to get you in trouble with Mrs. Hughes, so if you refuse I understand" she said respectfully.

"To be honest. I thought something might be brewing between you and Mr. Branson, but I had no idea how far it had gone," she confessed. At first Anna hesitated to take the note, but then reached out her hand and took the piece of folded paper. "But alright, I'll give it to him. Lady Mary and Lady Edith are right—make sure you know what you are doing. It's a major decision and there's no going back once its made."

"I promise I will think it through. Thank you," she replied grateful for Anna's help. "Thank you," she whispered to herself relieved to make some form of contact with him.

* * *

><p>Branson sat in the servant's hall with his arms on the table and his newspaper still folded next to him. He stared blankly into his cup of tea. He was back at his job, wearing the same dark green uniform, but his heart and mind felt numb—this was not where he was supposed to be today. By teatime he would have been wed to the woman he loved.<p>

Once she left the inn with her sisters, he had not been able to sleep. He lay awake for the rest of the night staring into the darkness and trying to determine what they should do next. If they were going to tell her parents they would need a plan that could not be derailed by her family's anticipated disapprovals. First, he would have to find another line of work, much sooner than he had expected. Fortunately he had already sent out letters to possible publications the week before. Second, he would also have to determine where they would live in Dublin, especially in light of her situation since they will most likely not be married before they leave for Ireland. Third, he should to write his mother with the news. He imagined that she too would have reservations about her son marrying the daughter of an English aristocrat. Lastly, he needed to discuss all of this with Sybil. He would leave it to her to determine when the best time would be to inform her family and when they should leave Downton. There was so much to put into motion before they could be married

Just before daybreak, he climbed behind the wheel of the Renault and departed his ill-fated stay at the Swan Inn. As he drove back to Downton with a plan beginning to cohere in his head, he realized it could take days, if not weeks for it to unfold. In the interim how would they continue to keep up the pretense of their current social stations? He would have to drive her family around knowing full well that he was about to marry their daughter and sister. She would have to suppress her feelings for him in the midst of everyone—both family and staff. They would have to dance around one another aware that they should be together, but that happiness was delayed due to social conventions to which neither of them subscribed anymore. Deceit was not his strong point, but it was their only option—at least for now. Add to all of this that he longed for her more than ever and he was frustrated that the wait continued.

He made it back to Downton just after eight o'clock. He quickly washed up and put on his uniform. Next, he headed up to the house where Mr. Carson informed him that Lord Grantham needed to be driven to Thirsk after breakfast. He had returned from this morning trip just before teatime. As he sat in the servant's hall ignoring his cup of tea, he wondered where she was in the vast house. He wanted to find her, but thought it best to keep his distance, especially given that two other denizens now knew their secret. Regardless of her sisters' good intentions to protect Sybil's wellbeing and future happiness, he would have to figure out a way to get to her since they now had much to discuss. But most importantly, he simply needed to be with her. Their joyous night at the inn—despite the intrusion—proved that they had an extraordinary bond of love built upon mutual respect, consideration, and support. He was almost certain she was still committed and that her sisters' interference had not changed a thing.

"Ahem," he heard a faint voice that grew louder—it was the deep bassoon of Mr. Carson talking to him.

"Mr. Branson, I said from the headlines there," he pointed to the paper. "With the Americans back at Versailles it would seem this rather peculiar idea of theirs—a League of Nations—might move forward," Mr. Carson offered as he passed through the hall.

"Pardon me Mr. Carson what was it you were saying?" he asked finally pulling his gaze away from his now cold cup of tea and standing up.

"Can't quite fathom this League of Nations I said. Why not return the monarchies to power and let the wisdom of the great families determine our collective fate?" the butler inquired. "But I suppose that world, the old world and its ways are quickly fading, soon to be a distant memory" Mr. Carson reluctantly admitted.

"Indeed sir," he replied barely registering Mr. Carson's poignant admission—especially after months of cordial debate about the most likely form of state to take hold in a postwar Europe.

"You seem unusually listless Mr. Branson, not your usual keen-witted self, perhaps you are still tired from your journey and a strong cup of coffee might be in order," Mr. Carson advised as he continued on with his many duties.

"Thank you, perhaps you're right Mr. Carson, I've been busy," he replied cryptically alluding to last night's events as he sat back down. He always appreciated the concern Mr. Carson showed for his staff. The butler had high standards of service and he had always met those demands with great admiration for the older man's sense of duty. However, given Mr. Carson's fierce loyalty to the old ways, when he discovers that Lady Sybil has agreed to marry the household's chauffeur there will be hell to pay. But he would have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

"Mr. Branson," said a voice. "Pardon me Mr. Branson," he heard a woman's voice that again snapped him out of his daze. It was Anna standing at the other end of the table.

"Oh Anna, its you. Sorry I was lost in thought," he apologized rubbing his eyes. He wanted to discreetly ask her about Lady Sybil, but couldn't do so in the very public and bustling servant's hall.

"Mr. Branson I…I…," Anna stammered not quite knowing where to start, but she couldn't have this conversation with him here. "Might I have a word with you? Outside perhaps?" Ann asked.

"Um, of course," he replied and got up from the table. He followed her outside. They walked into the yard and sat down on a bench away from the main house and amidst the outbuildings.

"Lady Sybil asked me to give you this," she reached into her apron pocket and handed him the note.

"Thank you," he said as his eyes lit up a very tired looking face.

"You should know I was with Lady Mary and Lady Edith last night when we found you at the inn," she revealed.

"You were there too?" he said shaking his head.

"Yes, I was," she answered looking down at the ground.

"Its all right. Last night was a bit of disaster you might say. I don't blame you or anyone," he told her. "Believe me, neither of us want you to be caught in the middle of this. I'm sorry," he told her as looked down at the note.

"Lady Sybil said much the same thing. No worries. Just glad you are both safe and back home," Anna accepted his apology.

He let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the wall of the shed—relieved to have some form of contact with Sybil. "How is she? How is Lady Sybil?"

"Lady Sybil slept late this morning," Anna informed him, aware of how tired he must be as well.

"Good. She needed rest. Yesterday was long and difficult. But I'm glad she has you to look after her. Thank you," he said cracking a semblance of a smile on his otherwise weary exterior.

Anna was touched by his concern for Lady Sybil's well being. She was beginning to understand the deep bond that had brought these two unconventional lovers together. "Mr. Branson she'll be all right," she attempted to reassure him.

"We've so much to overcome. I honestly don't know which hurdle to charge at first," he confessed. "But I do think it's best we tell Lord and Lady Grantham as soon as possible."

"Better to get it out in the open."

"It's true they have a right to know," he agreed.

"Mind you it's not going to be easy. You should be prepared for the storm afterwards as well," she warned.

"I think we both know that our plan to marry is going to cause a lot of trouble not just for her family, but also cause a fair amount of distress for Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. And for that I'm truly sorry," he told her with great remorse.

"It's a complicated situation you're in Mr. Branson," Anna reminded him.

"But it's not complicated you know. I want to devote my life to making her happy, it's that simple. We don't want to anyone to be hurt, we only want them to understand," he revealed his motivations.

"All you can do is try," she urged.

"We've gotten through this awful war and now times are different. I'm certain we'll be together. I just know it," he rallied his spirits. He realized how much it helped that Anna was aware of what was happening regardless of whether she sided with them or not. He hadn't told anyone about their plans. He felt relieved that someone on the staff finally knew—it made it more real to him.

Anna looked off in the distance as one of the groundskeepers approached. "You're up against the world," she said. "To be truthful I admire your and Lady Sybil's courage," she added looking back at him.

"Courage or foolhardiness?" he wondered aloud as he fumbled with the note.

"You're following your hearts and that's not an easy thing to do. Trust me many at Downton would envy how you're standing your ground," Anna told him reflecting upon Lady Mary's travails and her own challenges with Mr. Bates and his now deceased wife. "Well then—errand completed. I'd best be getting back to my duties. I hope it works out for you and for her. Really, I mean that Mr. Branson."

"I appreciate your giving me her letter."

She stood up and left.

He anxiously unfolded Sybil's note and leaned forward to read it:

_Dear Tom,_

_You should know I'm fine and miss you terribly. Just a few hours ago we were happy, about to start a life together. Now we are apart and back to living in our separate corners of the estate. I feel like this gigantic house has swallowed me whole. I am truly sorry that my sisters intruded upon our plans. I want nothing more than for us to be married. I cannot think of anything in this world that would make me happier. But we will have to wait. I think it best that we do this above board, whether we have our families' blessings or not. It will give our life together a fresh start. Don't worry my sisters won't tell, at least for now. I know it took me what must have seemed for you an eternity to confess my love, but I want you know that since then it has never wavered but only grown in strength. I cannot quite determine when I knew, since it had been building for such a long time. I appreciate your patience as I came to this realization. You are an honest, kind, and caring man. I couldn't ask for more in a husband. I still do not know what I did to deserve you, especially a man who accommodates my stubbornness. We will have to talk about our changing marriage plans as soon as possible. I haven't a clue when or where, but we will find a way I promise. Know I'm thinking about you as you read this._

_Love always,_

_Sybil_

He let out a sigh of relief. He was pleased to hear from her and that her commitment had never been stronger—this time her stubbornness was his best friend. He folded the note, put it in his pocket, and walked down to the garage—he had much to do.

* * *

><p>Two days later, Lady Grantham asked him to drive her and Ladies Edith and Sybil to Ripon on a shopping trip for the upcoming wedding of Miss Swire and Mr. Crawley. As he sped along the road, from his side view mirror he could see her profile as she looked pensively out of the window. He caught a fleeting glance of the graceful crane of her neck. He longed to shower her with kisses and hold her close. Instead, he went about his duties assisting with packages, opening doors, and appropriately receding into the background.<p>

Later in the week, she sat reading in the small library as she waited for the dinner guests to arrive. She could see through the window the motorcar pull up. He helped Miss Swire out the vehicle. She intently watched him go through his methodical performance. Shortly, she too would have to perform her own role as the dutiful daughter and lady-in-waiting when all she really wanted was to be with him. She had to muster all of her wherewithal not to bolt outside and into his embrace. She longed to be close, but it felt like half the globe and a tower of obligations now stood between them.

With the household back to its prewar divisions between the servants and the served, they barely saw each other and did not speak for the entire week after that fateful night at the Swan Inn.

* * *

><p>It was late. She was preparing for bed slowly removing her shoes and stockings. Her mind was elsewhere, thinking about him: <em>where was he, what was he doing? <em>She had sent Anna on her way because she wanted to write him another note before she changed into her bedclothes. She didn't dare go down to the garage. If her sisters found her there they would immediately go to her parents and he would be sacked shortly thereafter. He needed stay around so that they could figure out a new plan.

She heard a faint knock, must be Anna again. She got up from her desk and opened the door. To her surprise there he was standing in her doorway. "My goodness, come in!" she exclaimed barely able to catch her breath as her heart overflowed with joy.

"I'm sorry to surprise you. It's a big risk, but I didn't know any other way to see you other than to sneak up here when everyone had turned in," he whispered as he came into her bedroom. "We've so much to…" but before he could finish, she ran into his arms.

"Tom, I don't care how you got here! I've missed you so," she said burying her head in his shoulder as she began to tear up.

"Please don't cry, I'm here," he spoke quietly while holding her tightly, feeling her body shudder.

He wiped her tears away and gently kissed her salty cheek. "Shhh, I'm here," he uttered—his voice cracking slightly overwhelmed by his own flood of emotions. He rocked her gently.

"I'm so happy…that's all…you're here," she sniffled—content to feel his arms around her at last.

They looked longingly into each other eyes. Unable to hold back any longer, their lips met in a fiercely passionate kiss. When it ended they looked down with their foreheads touching, saying nothing, just feeling the heat of the other's body and reveling in the pleasure of their brief moment of intimacy—especially after being so abruptly separated a week before.

"It's taken everything I have not to run to you every hour of every day," she confessed.

"I've felt the same way. I'd have written you back, but I didn't want to impose on Anna again, so I had to come tonight." He kissed her forehead then told her the reason for his late night visit: "I can't stay long. We have to talk about our future." He pulled the desk chair over and gestured for her to sit down in the nearby armchair. He quickly sketched out his plan for her.

"I see," she confirmed thinking it through. "We should certainly wait till you get a response from the newspapers about a possible job before we tell them. I know my father, he would respect that."

"Yes that would be wise," he agreed with her suggestion.

"In terms of my work. I'm sure I can find a position as a nurse, with soldiers still coming back from the Fronts we're still in demand. And if Dr. Clarkson won't write me a reference, I can secure one from the military hospital's head nurse. She was impressed with my nursing skills and said if I ever needed a reference to write to her," she added her own plans to the scheme.

"I can and will support you I promise that, but also know how important your work is for you."

"Yes, my work is important. It gives me a sense of purpose. I want my new life with you to be different than my life here," she expressed her desires as she looked around her well-appointed room. "So we'll go to Dublin and be married there. I only hope my family will not cause us too much of a delay," she fearfully revealed. In her heart, she wanted to be married to him, but it was nonetheless still difficult to reconcile the disappointment she knew she was about to thrust upon her parents.

He could sense her trepidation that her family will disown her. He got down on his knee and took her hands: "I've written and yet to hear back from my mother. I'm not sure if she'll give us her blessing either. So we're in the same boat so to speak. But we'll get through each challenge. It's up to you when to tell your parents. You won't have to do it alone, I'll be by your side."

"I know that, it's why I love you. You're always with me," she said taking his hand. She kissed it and then held it to her heart. He stroked her chest; his touch electrified her. She leaned forward and sweetly kissed his lips.

Her pale skin felt warm and supple. He felt aroused. He wanted to scoop her up and take her to the bed, which he could have done as her husband if their plans had not been thwarted the week before.

"I should go. I'll let you know soon as I hear something. I'll try to find a less awkward time and place for us to meet next," he took her hand and pulled her up with him. He slid his arms around her waist and whispered into her ear, "imagine the scandal it would cause if a barefooted Lady Sybil was discovered in her bedroom in the arms of the chauffeur! Sounds like the plot of a moving picture no?"

"What does it matter if you're in my bedroom or if I'm your wife—let their tongues-wag I say," she boasted humorously. "No really Tom, the only thing that matters is our happiness."

"Indeed," he agreed and his lips grazed hers one last time. "I'm relieved to see you and that we've new plans to leave Downton. I'm finally at ease. Goodnight my love," he happily bid.

"Goodnight," she replied softly. She cautiously opened her bedroom door and looked both ways. Next she stealthily walked down the hallway to check if it was clear. She gestured for him to head toward the back servant's stair. She waved then watched him disappear into the darkness.

She crept back to her bedroom. She was thrilled to reconnect emotionally and physically—he had become such an integral part of her life. She finished undressing, climbed under the covers, and had her first restful sleep in over a week.


	11. Are You Sure?

_A small crack filled before attending to some major plot holes. Thanks for the reviews—always great to hear feedback and put a name to an anonymous hit. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 11 – Are You Sure?<p>

He sat at the table intensely reviewing the day's news. He heard the jingle of Mrs. Hughes's many keys above the din of downstairs.

"Mr. Branson, everyone's running ragged around here about this wedding on Saturday, so if no one's told you two letters arrived for you in the morning post," Mrs. Hughes informed him as she poked her head into the servant's hall. "I believe they're on the letter board near my sitting room."

"Thank you Mrs. Hughes," he eagerly replied. "Tis now or never" he said to himself trying to rally his optimism as he stood up hoping that these letters brought good news at last about his many pending decisions.

"Mr. Branson," she began in a hush voice as she walked up to the table. "If you don't mind my saying its good to see a smile brighten your face, you've been walking around for more than a week as if it were the end of the world. We're all beginning to wonder if anything was seriously wrong," she observed with knitted brows and a look of sincere concern.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hughes, I hope the performance of my duties has been up to snuff. I've had to consider some pressing personal matters as of late, but they're soon to be resolved," he offered as a partial defense for being out of sorts.

"No worries, I haven't heard Mr. Carson complain or Lord Grantham for that matter."

"That's good to know," he replied thinking that both those men will not be pleased with him when they hear the news of his marriage plans. He and Sybil are soon to openly transgress the social boundaries and principles that keep order in this massive household, rules that Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson devotedly uphold.

"I know it's not my place—you're more or less on your own as the household chauffeur—but if I can be of help with any problem you can always come to me or Mr. Carson. It may appear that we wear a coat of armor but we do have a soft underbelly you know," she thoughtfully offered him.

"Thank you Mrs. Hughes. I know that you and Mr. Carson expect nothing less than our best at all times."

"Indeed we do," she nodded.

"Please know that working here at Downton has been an honor and that I have the utmost respect for your diligence and high standards," he graciously added appreciative of the housekeeper's kind words as he came around the table to stand next to her.

"Well now that sounds like a farewell Mr. Branson if ever I heard one. I hope you're not planning on leaving us anytime soon? You've been a fine addition to the staff and would be difficult to replace," Mrs. Hughes tactfully pried sensing a hint of inevitability in his voice.

"I…I," he couldn't get out the rest without giving too much away. He hated lying to her and everyone else. He desperately wanted his secret and their news to be out in the open. _Soon, very soon _he reminded himself.

Before he could answer her pointed question, Mrs. Patmore barreled into the room with her arms gesticulating wildly and demanded, "Mrs. Hughes, we're still waiting for the fruit for these cursed wedding desserts. The delivery should have arrived this morning! How am I expected to do anything without my base ingredients?"

"All right Mrs. Patmore, I'll get to the bottom of it," Mrs. Hughes replied with her usual unwavering calm. "The war's been over for six months now—when will things get back on an even keel around here?" grumbled the stalwart housekeeper under her breath as she followed Mrs. Patmore to the kitchen.

He went into the hallway and retrieved his two letters from the clip. He looked them over—one had the familiar handwriting of his mother and the other came from the Dublin offices of _The Workers' Republic._ He walked out into the yard and found a quiet place to read them.

_Which one to open first_ he asked himself as he knew each augured a different outlook as to how his future would unfold.

* * *

><p>Later that afternoon, he pulled the towncar into the drive of Crawley House. He was taking Mrs. Crawley and Miss Swire back to home after they had reviewed the wedding preparations. And Lady Grantham and Sybil had agreed to join them for tea. Mr. Moseley assiduously conducted his duties and opened the door for her Ladyship and Miss Swire. He got out and opened the other door for Mrs. Crawley who was followed by Sybil. As he took her hand, he whispered discreetly, "I've good news of sorts," to indicate they needed to talk as soon as they could find the opportune moment.<p>

She nodded, squeezed his hand, and replied, "I'll try to sneak away from tea and find you." She then followed her mother into the house.

After an hour of chatting about Cousin Isobel's new charitable cause and reviewing the plans for the upcoming nuptials, she decided to excuse herself claiming that she promised to stop by the Cottage Hospital to pay a call on one of the nurses. Mr. Moseley helped her on with her coat and she darted out of the house. She found him standing near the motorcar waiting for her appearance.

"Can I help you milady," he inquired standing at attention awaiting her request.

"Branson," she began her formal address, then whispered in a familiar voice: "meet me at the Cottage Hospital in twenty minutes."

"As you wish, milady," he bowed and a wry smile crept across his face.

Then she set off through the gates. And as requested he caught up with her in front of the Cottage Hospital shortly thereafter.

He struck a handsome figure as he she watched him approach. "Hello," she greeted him glowingly.

He tipped his hat, "Hello." He was happy to be able to be alone with her—albeit in the very public streets of the village. "You look beautiful," he gushed taking in her lovely complexion in the warm light of a fine late April afternoon. They stood frozen in the moment for several seconds before he realized they had precious few minutes to discuss the latest news. "Um…we should perhaps…talk," he swallowed hard trying to regain his composure.

"Yes, you are quite right," she said as she blushed. She took in a deep breath of the sweet spring air. "We can walk through the village in broad daylight as if you are escorting me and no one will be the wiser," she commented relieved to be in his company after several more days of fleeting glances since their late night rendezvous in her bedroom.

With much to discuss, the two lovers slowly meandered their way back to Crawley House. He walked with his hands behind his back in a pose of deference. She walked a half step ahead.

"I've received two letters from Dublin this morning," he started.

"Good news I hope?" she enthusiastically asked.

"At least I'd like to think it's mostly good," he replied.

"Well, tell me what did they say," she prodded anxious to know what the letters said.

"One letter was from the editor of the _Workers' Republic."_

"And?" she raised her arms. "Tell me!" she demanded.

"All right. They've made me an offer of a position as a journalist," he revealed.

"You got a job that's wonderful news!" she giddily replied. "And who reads this paper?" she asked glancing over at him.

"It will be published by the Socialist Party—to rally supporters for this latest pursuit of Ireland's independence. It's really a new paper with an old name."*

"I see," she said sorting through the practicalities and what this would mean for their future. "It's a political newspaper then?"

"Yes, a forum for the rights of all those who are downtrodden by the powerful. My hope is that the independence will be won without an all out civil war—at least it's worth a try."

"That should be an ideal platform to share your political beliefs and make a bid for a peaceful transition," she optimistically suggested. "When can you start?"

"As soon as I return to Dublin the letter said."

"It sounds rather promising, do you want to take the position?"

"The editor wants to put out the first issue in the next three months. So I'll be doing a lot more than writing at first. I'll learn about the newspaper business—but it's a start and the pay's decent," he informed her of the details of the offer as they walked through the village square. They stopped on the edge of the square and stood under a big chestnut tree whose long branches were now sprouting its spring foliage. "Sybil, it's a big risk with this new venture, its not an established newspaper or magazine. I want to know what you have to say. It also affects you of course. Would you prefer I find a position that's more secure?" he asked desirous of her sharing in the decision.

She was surprised at his request, but grateful he sought her opinion. She took a moment to mull it over. "If the newspaper is for good cause and it's meaningful work, what more can you ask for? I think it's what you should do," she earnestly replied. "What we should do," she amended her statement.

"I'm glad you agree," he said excitedly to her. He was fortunate to have found someone who believed in him, in what he could contribute to the world. And for that unyielding faith he was deeply grateful. He wanted to take her into his arms and twirl her around he was relieved and happy to have her support in this new professional adventure, but he once again had to restrain his desires and impulses—but hopefully not much longer.

"It's the start of our new life together," she said pleased at this new development. "I imagine with you in this new position on the newspaper, I can eventually join you and find work as a nurse. And then we can be married."

"That brings me to the second letter," he said as they started walking again up the lane toward Crawley House.

"And what news did the other letter bring?"

"The one from my mother…" he started to say, but his tone was decidedly less sanguine.

"From the change in your voice, I suspect it's not good news?"

"To put it plainly, Ma thinks I must've lost all common sense for wanting to marry the daughter of a peer of England," he revealed of the contents of his mother's letter.

"Tom, we can't expect them to understand us," she said realizing his hopes had been dashed.

"I thought that at least she _would_ understand. She's always been mindful of others."

"What did she write exactly?"

"She thinks I'm being 'foolish.'"

"Did really she write that?"

"Foolish mind you, for marrying the one woman who makes me happy, a woman I adore more than anything!" he dismissed his mother's misguided assertion in favor of his heart.

"I'm sorry it wasn't what you wanted to hear from your mother," she tried ease his obvious disappointment. She yearned to reach out to him, to hold his hand, but alas she couldn't. More than anything, she wanted it all over with and for them to find a place where none of it mattered. She wanted to be rid of all the rigid rules and antiquated beliefs that maintained this ridiculous wall between them.

"No, it's not what I expected from her. However, she did also write that in the end it was my decision to make and she would support us getting married in the church. Ma said that regardless of what she may fear for us that my future bride would be welcome in our home. So you can stay with her till we're married."

"Are you sure? That's good news no? It means I can come with you as soon as possible. We won't have to wait much longer," she gleefully said.

"Yes, I did say I thought it was mostly good," he teased as they arrived to the wall that enclosed the front lawn of Crawley House. They again turned to face one another.

"We can only hope that along with my parents she'll eventually accept us," she let out a sigh of regret.

"On that topic: how about we go ahead and tell your parents? The sooner the better, then we can leave for Dublin shortly after Mr. Crawley's and Miss Swire's wedding," he suggested.

"I suppose its time," she realized as she gazed off in the distance down the lane to the village square. _It was time_, she repeated to herself. She would have to tell her mother and father but could she go through with it? As Anna had cautioned _"there's no going back once its made."_ As she looked around her, she considered that she would have a week before all of this was in her past.

"How about we tell your parents?" he asked again. She didn't reply. "Are you sure you're ready for this? To leave Downton?" he asked her keenly aware of her reticence now bubbling to the surface.

"I'm sorry," she replied clearly flustered by his question.

"Listen, I'm asking you to give up everything that has been your life: your parents, sisters, family—your entire world at Downton and this village too," he confessed as she looked at him. "And in its place I'm taking you somewhere you know nothing about. To live with people who don't know you and quite frankly may not even like you. It's not going to be easy—a life of work. But I promise you I will do everything to provide for you and ensure your happiness…"

He was right she was at a crossroads. Since his earnest confession at York she had spent years incrementally falling in love with him. The mad rush after her realization of the depths of her feelings led to the disastrous elopement. Mary and Edith had given her some time to fully comprehend her choice to marry him and all of its consequences. Her sisters hadn't revealed their secret, she had a chance to be honest with herself and parents—but did she finally have the courage to tell them what she wanted in life?

"I promise we'll be fine" he reassured her and he discreetly grabbed her hand—sure no one could see them.

He was being brutally forthright. She should have panicked from what he just reminded her about what lie ahead. But instead as she gazed into his loving eyes and gently held his hand, a wave of calm overtook her anxiousness. He gave her the strength to follow her convictions. He always had—from that moment he handed her those suffrage pamphlets six years ago. While they didn't always agree, he listened and he clearly respected her opinions—contrary to her grandmother's prediction that she would have to adopt and parrot her husband's viewpoints. All those years ago, he had tried to avert disaster due to her hotheaded decision to attend the vote count at the fateful bye-election. She later found out that he had carried her out of the melee. She was in a stupor, but she remembered a firm grip lifting her and a pair of strong arms spiriting her to safety. She knew he would protect her as well as provide for her. "Tom," she began, "we should tell them tonight." Her face broke into a wide grin.

"You are certain about this?"

"Yes it's what I want," she said bravely.

"Tonight it will be," he confirmed. "What time should I find you?"

"Let's see. How about coming to the drawing room after dinner say half past nine," she suggested.

"Don't suppose I'll have Mr. Carson announce me?"

"No, that wouldn't be good idea."

"I'll be there."

"And we'll face the music together," she mustered her courage.

"Let's just pray it's not a funeral march," he jokingly replied.

She giggled. "Papa will no doubt rally the troops around him. We should be prepared."

"That means I should pack and be ready to leave when we're finished. I'll not be able to stay the night at Downton. Your father will have my head on a platter for sure."

"I'll not allow him to chase you away," she insisted. "Downton is your home too."

He was charmed by her naiveté, but he had to remind her that, "I work at Downton—for your father." "And it's not just his Lordship I'll have to contend with. I'll be sacked before Mr. Carson can put away the silver. He and Mrs. Hughes are going to be furious with me," he expected.

"You have a point," she agreed. "Well, at least stay the night and leave in the morning."

"That may be a better alternative," he said. "I can stay…" but before he could finish they heard the voice of her mother drift over the wall. They immediately let go of their hands.

"_Now where has she gone off to? I thought she'd be back by now. I think the poor dear terribly misses working at the hospital. What are we going to do with her? She needs a husband I think," _they overheard her mother say to Isobel as they emerged from Crawley House.

"Hmm, I've been discovered missing again. I'd better go back in. I will see you tonight then," she told him—wanting to seal their fate with a kiss.

"Tonight! Half past nine," he said longing to taste her soft lips. "We'll tell her you've found that husband."

"I'm here Mama. Branson found me to let me know you would be leaving soon," she spoke loudly and waved at her mother as she walked back up the drive. He followed a few steps behind her.

"Thank you Branson for retrieving my wayward daughter," Cora commented hyperbolically about Sybil's whereabouts.

"You're welcome your Ladyship," he bowed and returned to his duties. _You have no idea how wayward your daughter actually is at the moment, _he humorously thought.

"Sybil, I want to quickly show you the list Cousin Isobel has put together of charities that handle the plight of refugees and then I promise we'll return home," Cora mentioned as she put her arm around her daughter's shoulder and ushered her back into the house. Sybil looked lovingly back him—her future—standing by the motorcar.

He smiled back at her confident that they had chosen to proceed wisely this time. He was asking her to sacrifice everything for him. He could still barely believe that she had said yes to his brash proposal, but she had. He was venturing into unknown territory with a new bride and new position—but felt in his soul this was the right decision for him and for her.

* * *

><p>While Cora took Sybil inside the house for a moment, Isobel remained outside in the crisp spring air. She walked over toward the chauffeur who seemed deep in thought. "Branson I guess you'll have to come back for my son and his fiancé later on when they go to dinner at the house. Such an utter waste of valuable petrol I believe."<p>

"Indeed, Mrs. Crawley, you may be right but its his Lordship's petrol to waste," he respectfully replied.

"Perhaps. Do you think the rich will ever learn how not to be so wasteful? I mean they have so much, while the rest of the world has so little," she commented.

He wasn't quite sure how to tactfully respond to her insightful comment.

"I'm sorry I shouldn't burden you with one of my lectures."

"Tis no problem Mrs. Crawley. I admire your commitment to your causes. You've helped a lot of needy people," he complimented the determined older woman.

"Well I'm glad you think so. I'm not sure those in that large estate up the road necessarily agree with all of my—shall we say—radical ideas. But I do believe their genteel world before the war is gone forever and they're going to have to adopt or die out."

"Do you really believe that the aristocracy will change their views and habits?" he asked curious about her son's future as the Earl of Grantham.

"Why certainly. Haven't you noticed? There are new ways of doing things sprouting up all around us."

"That's very true," he remarked reflecting up his own impending unorthodox marriage.

"I think they've even accepted my son as the heir to Downton. People can change—for the better let's hope," Isobel put forth. "The rich may appear to have everything and stand for all that is correct, but as I've discovered since we came here—they have as many foibles as you or I. No one is perfect you know," she said as she turned toward the front door to see Cora and Sybil reappear. "Oh there you are. I hope you are pleased with my list, I tried to be thorough."

This was a sage reminder from Mrs. Crawley about human nature given that he was about to test how receptive the aristocracy was to the "new way of doing things." But he was also particularly pleased that Sybil might have at least one ally amongst the family—her cousin Isobel who would rally on her behalf. He climbed in and started the engine, then waited for his passengers.

"Thank you Isobel. I'm sorry we won't see you this evening, but we're delighted Matthew and Lavinia can join us. It should be a lovely eventful pre-wedding dinner," Cora bid farewell as she walked toward the motorcar with Sybil. He stood by the car door as both women climbed into the rear.

The decision had been made and their plan put into motion. This time there would be no interference and no turning back. Dinner tonight will most certainly be eventful, unforgettable for all in attendance thanks to the peculiar news from the youngest lady-in-waiting and the Irish chauffeur.

* * *

><p><em>*I fudged a little with the dates. The Workers' Republic was published on several occasions. After the Easter Rising it ceased publication and wasn't revived again until 1921 just as the SPI became the Communist Party of Ireland.<em>


	12. You Knew?

_A major hole in the story repaired. This is the uncut version of the S/T reveal to her family (sans Mrs. Patmore's boiling caldron of course; worse editing/WTF moment in DA2 if you ask me). As a novice fiction writer doing it mostly for my pleasure and your enjoyment, I want to thank you all for the lovely reviews, smart comments, and useful pointers. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 12 - You Knew?<p>

Sybil sat at her dressing table. She thought the gold earrings and necklace would be apropos with the black dress this evening. She slid the long chain over her head and the slender pendant dangled in front of her mid section. She was pleased at this afternoon's latest developments with her beloved Branson, especially his promising job offer with the newspaper, but best of all that she could come with him to Dublin.

She looked around her bedroom. Very soon she would be leaving these familiar environs. She turned to her dressing table mirror to finish her preparations for what would most certainly be a trying family dinner.

She cocked her head as she observed herself: _what will the future hold?_ Something about her countenance made her appear older, more mature. _Was it the style of her hair perhaps or the way she held her chin?_ The girlish gloss of innocence had worn off and in its place radiated a womanly poise. She exuded confidence. She would have to draw on this reserve to get through tonight's revelation and the aftermath that was sure to cast a pall over the next few days.

She turned her head in profile and glanced back at the mirror. So this is what he sees when he looks so intently at me? She felt different. That tingly feeling when he was near, the racing pulse, giddiness, had manifested itself as a longing desire. She wanted to feel the heat of his skin, the pleasurable touch of his lips tickling her neck, his hand caress the small of her back. She knew enough about the intimate relations between a man and a woman to realize that it was her sexual desire for him that had become an aching passion—an urge that would have to be suppressed until their wedding night. _Or did she really have to wait?_

She turned her head back and looked herself over one last time. _So this is what a woman in love looks like?_ A smile broadened across her face, she then breathed in deeply. In a couple of hours he would be at her side—standing together in front of her family and disclosing their plans to marry. _How exactly would they phrase it to soften the blow? What are her mother and father going to say? How will her grandmother react? Why should this be so difficult to begin with—it was their choice after all?_ She should at least forewarn her sisters, especially since they had kept her secret. After leaving her alone for the better of two weeks, her sisters have probably assumed that her desire to run off with the chauffeur had been a passing fancy, a childish obsession, or perhaps some sort of emotional reaction to the sedate, humdrum life after wartime. But her heart told her something different and now it was time to tell them all. She stood up, grabbed her gloves from the bed, and went to go find Mary in her sister's bedroom down the hall.

* * *

><p>Branson finished closing the top button on his uniform's jacket. Next, he held it up on its hangar to look it over one last time. It was certainly not going to be worn ever again after this evening. Neither was he going to live in this cottage—his home for the last six years—after tomorrow.<p>

There would be many things he would miss about working at Downton. He had grown fond of his colleagues, even though in general everyone kept a polite distance and deigned to discuss personal matters. Over the years, including during the upheaval caused by the war, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had maintained a tight ship. They had treated the staff fairly—even giving a little latitude every now and then for certain indiscretions. He had experienced their tolerance firsthand after his escapade to embarrass General Strutt. In response to their trust, he strove on a daily basis to deliver the highest level of service. He took his duties with the utmost seriousness and never heard one complaint about his work.

Despite his affinity for those facets of his job, he would not miss, however, being in the employ of the aristocracy. To be sure, Lord Grantham had been a fair man who returned his servants' fidelity by paying respectable wages and providing decent lodgings. He only wished that more men (along with their families) cared so deeply about the welfare of their workers. But in the bigger picture, the concentration of wealth in the hands of the few had left many of Lord Grantham's class blind to suffering of the many. In the postwar new world order, this could no longer be the case. To forge ahead with plans to challenge and change these inequities, he knew it was time to move on with his life elsewhere. He had new prospects—both personally and professionally. Journalists after all do not don uniforms.

He hung up the chauffeur's jacket in the cupboard. He removed his grey jacket from the other hanger and slipped it on. He brushed off the sleeves then adjusted his tie and collar pin. He swallowed hard. As had been his routine, he had picked up the dinner guests, but had discreetly asked Edward to return them home. Sybil would be waiting for him in the drawing room about now and would be by his side when they defended their decision to her father and family. She had chosen him when she could have had her pick of the eligible young suitors in London. He cherished her love and it gave him the strength to face anything. He longed for her physically in a way he had never yearned for another woman. A smile broadened across his face, he then breathed in deeply. He opened the door of the cottage, stepped out into the cool evening air, and walked up to the house.

At the servant's entrance, he stopped for a moment and pulled out his watch—9:28. He knew that the kitchen staff would be dining, the wait staff would be clearing the dinner table and serving platters, and others would be preparing the bedrooms for the evening. With everyone busy at their stations, he quietly made his way through the downstairs' hallways. He climbed the stairs up to the main level and walked into the great hall. This grand space seemed deathly quiet after the flurry of convalescents who filled it with daily activity for more than two years. He stopped at the door of the drawing room. _It's time._ He turned the doorknob.

* * *

><p>Sybil was uneasy all evening. She barely spoke during dinner. All the talk about the forthcoming wedding seemed idle chatter in comparison to what she knew would be topic of conversation later in the evening. From time to time, Edith and Mary shot knowing glances her way that telegraphed the not-so subtle-messages: "for heaven's sake not now," "how could you?" Piling onto her mountain of anxiety, Violet complained incessantly about feeling faint and fatigued attributing her maladies to rumors of this "influenza business" that had been spreading throughout the county. She waited—he would soon be here.<p>

The women adjourned to the drawing room for coffee while Matthew and Robert had a brandy in the dining room. She fidgeted with her gloves and stared intermittently at the clock. The men eventually joined them at a quarter past nine.

Sitting elegantly in a side chair in her red evening gown, Cora commented to her and Lavinia about how impressed she had been earlier in the day with Isobel's list of organizations to aid the war's refugees, "there will be much that can be done even from here I suspect."

"Indeed, Matthew's mother has done her due diligence," Lavinia complimented her soon-to-be mother-in-law to Cora. "You know once we're settled after our honeymoon I hope to assist her charitable cause in some way."

Just then the door opened and Branson strode in. He looked around and quickly noted that they were all there.

Lord Grantham turned around from his conversation with Matthew and addressed his chauffeur's sudden intrusion into his family's private gathering, "Yes?"

His eyes locked on Sybil and declared: "I'm here."

"So I can see," replied Lord Grantham assuming the chauffeur's cryptic statement was addressed to him.

Mr. Carson seemed alarmed at the appearance of the household's driver unannounced during after dinner coffee, "Mr. Branson is there some sort of emerg…"

But before the butler could finish Sybil stood up, approached him, and quietly uttered her concerns, "I don't think this is such a good idea, we mustn't worry Granny!"

_Now was the time and he had to bolster her confidence_ he realized. He responded insistently, "You've asked me to come and I've come."

He was right they had to tell them. Sybil turned to stand by his side and face her family. Confusion overtook the room. Edith and Mary were mortified at what they knew was about to come next.

Violet was now very intrigued as to why the chauffeur, clearly out of the chauffeur's uniform, was standing in their midst. "Would someone please tell me what is going on or have we all stepped through the looking glass?" she queried the group.

To her humorous albeit perceptive question he responded assertively, "Your grandmother has a right to know as much as anyone else."

"Why don't I find that reassuring?" quipped Violet.

Again Mr. Carson tried to intervene in what was quickly becoming a very uncomfortable situation for all in the room. "I apologize your Lordship this is clearly some minor misunderstanding," he hastily addressed Lord Grantham. "I will take care of it at once, if you will pardon me a moment," he asked as the butler placed the coffee pot back on the tray.

"Yes, please do Carson," Lord Grantham requested, clearly annoyed by the interruption and desirous of enjoying this time with his family.

"Mr. Branson I do not know what this is about, but please leave now," he sternly reprimanded the errant driver.

Sybil responded calmly, "No Carson it's quite alright. He can stay. I've asked him here this evening."

"Pray tell me, why might you have summoned Branson to us?" Robert asked his youngest daughter.

"Yes Papa…you see," she started. Branson discreetly took her hand and looked assuredly at her. "We have an announcement to make," she revealed as she surveyed the room.

"We? An announcement about what?" Robert replied now utterly confused at the turn of events unfolding in his drawing room.

"We are…," she started and he gently squeezed her hand. "We are going to be married," she finally informed her family as she looked over to him for reassurance. He cracked a faint smile and nodded that she had done well.

They next turned to the room and stared out into an abyss of dead silence. Their announcement hung over the room like a dark cloud waiting to deliver its punishing rain, it had rendered everyone speechless.

"Ha, ha, ha," Robert's nervous laughter cut through the thick tension. "Who's played this joke upon us? Is this something you girls put together as some sort of pre-wedding prank?" he asked as he turned to Mary and Edith for confirmation of his suspicions.

Neither Mary nor Edith validated his hunch. "Well?" he prodded, his smile quickly fading.

Edith replied regretfully, "I'm sorry Papa, but I don't believe Sybil is joking."

"Surely you jest my dear," he turned back to his youngest child. "You can't possibly intend to marry the chauffeur, Branson here?" Lord Grantham gestured and inquired in a more serious tone as he came to the realization that this may not be a joke after all.

"He has made a proposal of marriage and I have accepted," she repeated—confidently prepared to stand her ground. She looked over at her mother who was now looking very pale. Violet glanced down as she absorbed the earth shattering news. Matthew and Lavinia stayed politely silent.

"But this cannot be, it is not possible? It's just not done, we don't marry the servants," Robert stated what he assumed to be the obvious. He turned and placed his hand on the marble mantelpiece as he came to terms with the implications of his daughter's unusual announcement.

"It's true Papa. We are going be married," she repeated and waited for what was sure to be a barrage of accusations and endless questions.

"How could this happen?" Robert shook his head. "I want to know when did this happen?" Robert adamantly requested as he turned back to Sybil.

"I accepted Tom's proposal a few weeks ago. We waited to find the right time to tell you," she replied trying to maintain an atmosphere of civility.

Branson stood by her patiently keeping quiet, knowing his words would add fuel to the brewing anger of her father.

"Oh so now's the right time, as a fitting prelude to Cousin Matthew's wedding I suppose?"

"I'm sorry Papa. I don't mean to put a damper on the festivities, but we had to tell you at some point," she offered—still firmly grasping his hand.

"And you kept it from your mother and me this long? You were planning to marry the chauffeur and you told no one?" he asked in a sarcastic tone that exposed his simmering rage.

Sybil and Branson let go of their hands and said nothing more.

Mary put down her coffee cup and walked over to her father hoping to contain the damage. "I'm sorry Papa, but I've known about it for sometime now," she confessed regretfully.

"What do you mean you knew?" Robert raised his voice at Mary.

"I hoped it would blow over," Mary made her excuses. "I didn't want to split the family when Sybil might still wake up."

"Clearly it hasn't blown over and your little sister is lost in some fantasy world she's dreamt up," he bristled as he then turned toward Branson—clearly the person at the root of the wreck and ruin now heaped upon his family. "And you! What do _you_ have to say?"

"We've decided to wed and will do so as soon as possible," he replied to the now seething Lord Grantham.

"What gives you leave to make such an offer to _my_ daughter?" he bellowed no longer containing his anger.

"I made a proposal of marriage and your daughter has happily accepted it," he tried to remain calm in the face of his employer's tirade, rage stoked by what her father perceived to be duplicitous behavior on both their parts.

"And all the time you've been driving me about, bowing and scraping while seducing my daughter behind my back," Robert yelled unleashing his fury at the man who was laying to waste his daughter's sterling reputation.

He was not going to be belittled by anyone including Robert Crawley the Earl of Grantham: "I don't bow and scrape and I've seduced no one." Nor was he going to stand idly by while her father dismissed Sybil's intelligence or her hard won independence. He boldly replied without the appropriate address of deference: "Give your daughter some credit for knowing her own mind!"

"How dare you speak to me in that tone!" Robert yelled back. He then ordered: "You will leave at once!"

Sybil had had enough of her father's intimidation, "Oh Papa! Please do not treat him in this manner."

"Oh and how should I be treating the chauffeur who is planning to abscond with my daughter?" Robert lobbed back at her. Trying to defuse his anger he turned away, "This is a folly, a ridiculous juvenile madness?"

Violet saw this an opportune moment to intervene in the disagreement. "All of this is getting us nowhere Robert. I want to know what this is about. Sybil what do you have in mind?" asked her grandmother firmly grasping the handle of her walking stick.

Robert disagreed, "Mama please, this is hardly the time or place for your meddling."

"No," the matriarch insisted. "I want to know what this is about, she must have something in mind. Otherwise she would not have summoned him here tonight."

She was relieved that her grandmother had at least asked about their plans. "Thank you Granny. Yes we do have a plan," she nervously started. "Tom's got a job at a paper. I'll stay until after the wedding. I don't want to steal their thunder," she looked over at Lavinia and Matthew. "But after that I'll go to Dublin."

Her latest revelation was too much for Cora to bear. "To live with him? Unmarried?" she gasped.

"I'll live with his mother while the banns are read. And then we'll be married," she tried to allay her mother's fears that she was running off to live in "sin." "And then I'll get a job as a nurse. I'm sure my training during the war will be useful," she looked lovingly at him as she narrated their plans.

"Well this seems like quite a grand scheme you two have cooked up," Violet observed of the wayward lovers standing in front of her. "What does your mother make of this?" she inquired of him.

"If you must know she thinks we're very foolish," he reluctantly, but honestly revealed his own mother's misgivings.

"At least we have something in common," Violet retorted trying to bring some levity to what was clearly a monumental family disaster.

Robert, however, failed to discern one iota of humor in this dire situation and was determined to end the misguided engagement before it progressed any further. "I won't allow it. I will not allow my daughter to throw away her life!"

Sybil was determined not to be cowed. She adamantly replied, "You can posture all you like Papa. It won't make any difference."

"Oh yes it will!" he railed.

"How? I don't want any money!" she fought back. "You can hardly lock me up until I die!"

Robert and Cora were shocked at this renunciation of her inheritance.

Sybil thought it was best to end it here before more was said that couldn't be withdrawn. Clearly her parents weren't going to accept Branson or warm to their plans of marriage. "I'll say goodnight. But I can promise you one thing," she warned, "tomorrow morning nothing will have changed." She turned to leave the drawing room, bidding him to join her.

With nothing more to add, he followed her out of the room.

* * *

><p>She was furious at her family's reaction. "Arghh," she growled. "How could my parents be so unfeeling and unyielding? It couldn't have gone any worse," she said to herself as she treaded through the great hall clenching her fists in anger.<p>

"Sybil," he tried to stop her. "Sybil," he pleaded again rushing after her.

Overwhelmed by the events, she didn't hear his call. She marched through the entrance hall and headed straight out of the front door into the night.

_How could her father treat Tom with such disdain and ire,_ she fumed. She came to a stop just outside of the radiant glow of the massive house, her feet planted firmly at the edge of the lawn. The night air had a frosty bite even though it was late April.

He came to a halt right behind her. "Sybil," he called. She said nothing. She was still swimming in the torrent of her emotions. She was also shivering he realized. He took off his jacket and slid one of her arms then the other into its sleeves. "Here, I don't want you catching your death of cold," he offered.

Enveloped by the warmth of his jacket, she sensed his calming presence and her anger began to recede. From behind, she felt his body press against hers and then his arms encircle her waist. His cheek gently brushed against her soft hair. She relaxed back into his embrace. Their hands interlocked

The two lovers needed to feel their special bond after the tumultuous confrontation that had ended moments ago. They stared into the blue-black of the sky and remained silent for several minutes. They listened to the calls of the night. They felt the rise and fall of the other's breath.

"I'm sorry," he finally broke their silence.

She took in a deep breath of the evening air and let out a long sigh.

"I'm so very sorry for what happened back there," he said again.

"There's nothing to be sorry about," she whispered in a tone that conveyed her sense of loss. "They're the ones who should be sorry."

"I don't want you to be sad about losing your family. I'm sure they'll forgive you."

"I'm not sad. I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of how they treated you, how they dismissed us," she answered back.

"They don't understand."

"My family had no right to treat you like that. They don't know you like I do. 'Bow and scrape'—that was terribly cruel," she huffed.

"They're just words—your father was venting his anger. He quite rightly felt betrayed. I want them to know the woman you've become. I stood my ground though. Anyway those things don't matter to us,"

"I'm glad you didn't back down. But what he said to you, demanded of me, it's not fair."

"Life's not fair sometimes, most of the time," he reminded her.

"I hate losing them," she confessed of their rejection by her family as a tear streamed down her cheek. "You're everything to me," she told him as she slowly turned around in his arms. Over his shoulder, she looked back at Downton with its many windows aglow like a large Chinese lantern—it seemed so monstrous, empty, and far away. Her new life was in her arms. She pulled away from their embrace and looked lovingly into his eyes.

He cradled her face in both his hands. The mute light from the house made her skin radiate against the dark night. Even with such sadness in her heart, her beauty nonetheless enthralled him. He gently wiped away her tear with his thumb. "I'm here," he comforted her.

She nodded.

"I'll always be here," he said again as he slowly leaned in and kissed her cheek where the tear had fallen. "I love you," he quietly affirmed as their lips softly grazed one another and then locked into a long kiss.

Feeling loved and secure after such a tumultuous confrontation, she placed her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. She quietly pleaded: "take me with you, I don't want to go back in there."

"You have to. We're not going to run. We'll leave in due time whether they accept us or not," he said thoughtfully refusing her request, not wanting to make that mistake again. As difficult as it had been, Lady Mary had been right—it was better to tell them than sneak off like a thief in the night.

"I guess we tried that and failed," she replied looking up at him remembering their disastrous elopement.

"Failed rather miserably mind you," he smiled back at her.

"Hmmm," she sighed. "You're right. But now they know, its out in the open and soon everyone will know."

"Indeed, I'll have to see Mr. Carson sometime tomorrow," he remembered his own forthcoming gauntlet of disapproval from his fellow servants now that their secret was public.

"You'll have your own mini-tirade to contend with downstairs I imagine. I don't know who'll be more beastly Carson or Papa?"

"We knew this wasn't going to be an easy road to follow," he reminded her. "But we made it through tonight together. We'll survive everything else that comes our way."

"That we will," she agreed. And she kissed him once more, this time her tongue danced eagerly with his as her intense desire for him bubbled to the surface. She caressed his strong shoulders wanting feel what was below his vest and shirt.

He pulled out of the kiss, afraid of his own rising passions. "I think we should say goodnight. Otherwise…" he pondered for a moment taking her back with him to his cottage.

"Otherwise what?" she flirtatiously asked.

"Let's just make it a chaste good-bye…for now," he offered and sweetly kissed her forehead.

"For now," she agreed.

He took her hand and walked her back to the front door. "Good night then," he said at the threshold Downton Abbey.

"No, it's a better night knowing that we're soon to be wed," she kissed him on the cheek. She took off his jacket and handed it back to him. "Thank you."

He opened the door and she disappeared inside the big house.

No matter what happened next, they confidently knew they had the strength to face down anything or anyone. They knew the power of their love.

* * *

><p><em>I'm almost done-no really. Curious who you think of the downstairs staff was the most upset about one of their own running off with a daughter of the house?<em>


	13. Where Are You?

_Finally had some time to wrap up this story. Thank you Scarlet Court, Harry and George, peps 281, Seaside shipper for your comments about who amongst the staff was the most upset about crossing the great social divide. One more to go…enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 13 – Where Are You?<p>

TAP, TAP, TAP, Sybil heard at her bedroom door as she finished buttoning her blouse. She rubbed her brow with her hand and spoke loudly, "Anna I'm fine thank you, I'm dressed already." She was tired, irritated, and dissatisfied with the outcome of last night's announcement. She wanted to go find Branson, but knew he needed to take care of his own firestorm downstairs. What a mess. Her head ached and she had deliberately missed breakfast.

"May I come in," Mary asked as she opened the door of Sybil's bedroom.

"Why ask? No one around here seems to care about what I want," Sybil responded angrily to the intrusion of her sister—the one who had circumvented her elopement. Otherwise, she would be happily married right now and not be trying to stave off this annoying headache or her family.

"My, my you've woken up in a fighting mood. I can assure you I've left my bayonet in the hall way," Mary came into the bedroom with her hands raised—a gesture of cease-fire to indicate that this was meant to be a peaceful visit.

"As I said no one around here seems to care about what I want," she complained. "What they want is me locked in the attic like some mad woman—Bertha Rochester at age twenty-two," Sybil fired off as she walked over to her desk to shuffle through some papers looking for a pen.

"Well I can certainly see why—especially after last night's performance that nearly brought down the house," Mary shot back desirous of engaging her little sister in coming to some resolution.

"I don't know why it matters so much who I marry? They'd be happy to see me handed off to some fifth son of a baronet. I want to marry a former chauffeur now journalist from Dublin," she said as she rifled through the drawers of her writing desk. "Aha, here's my pen. Anyway you're marrying Richard Carlisle—he's not a peer?"

"Not _yet_ a peer," Mary promptly reminded her of "Sir" Richard's driving ambitions.

"This life they want for me isn't what I want anymore. It might have been all well and good before the war, but I've changed, the world's changed. I want to work and contribute something to it," she restated her motivations. "I'll marry Tom and I want to see anyone—including Papa—try and stop me," she staunchly defended her position as she slammed down the pen, turned around to face her older sister.

"I just want to make sure you know what you're doing and that you've given this marriage proposal careful consideration," Mary asked of her sister one last time.

Sybil folded her arms and said nothing.

Mary finally relented realizing that her not-so-little sister wasn't going to change her mind anytime soon: "Sybil, I only have your best interests at heart."

"I'm sorry," Sybil softened to her sister's visit and concerns. "I suppose you did try to keep Papa from completely blowing his top last night. I am grateful for that."

"I tried—what little good it did," Mary pointed out raising her brows as she recalled her father's fury. "But you have to admit your telling them you were going to marry the chauffeur was bound to set off fireworks. I couldn't tell who was going to pop his collar first: Papa or Carson?"

Sybil looked away taking stock of the falling out with her family, "And right before Matthew's wedding. We didn't mean to be a distraction from their celebration."

"Quite frankly I rather welcome the distraction," Mary sarcastically replied.

"Oh, I see," Sybil said as she snapped her head back to absorb the full implications of Mary's unusual statement. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see it, but your still in love with him. Why don't you tell Matthew?" Sybil compassionately inquired, quite surprised that the usually steely Mary let that slip. She realized Mary had her own affairs of the heart to contend with.

But Mary did not want to dwell on her own failed love affair. "Never mind that—honestly Sybil now what? The family knows. The whole county probably knows by now. You've clearly not backed down and seem intent on following through with your plan to marry him."

"I don't quite know what's next. Tom has to leave Downton; he can't very well stay on now that Papa knows. I'm sure Carson is sacking him as we speak," she responded with a tone of concern. She had been so immersed in her own fit of rage last night they had had little chance to discuss what to do next. "I suppose it will be as we announced—I'll go to Dublin with him to be married after Matthew's wedding on Saturday. Will you and Edith come over for it?"

"I can't say at the moment. I'm still trying to let it sink in—_my_ sister married to the chauffeur," Mary begged off answering Sybil's question. She was still in shock that Branson had stolen—in her mind—Sybil's heart. "Are you sure this is what you want? There's no going back. You can't change course once you leave here and all the world knows."

"It is what I want. Believe me," she paused. "I've taken a long time to make sure my feelings are genuine," Sybil assured Mary once again—acknowledging the years she had kept Branson waiting for an answer to his declaration in York.

Mary walked over, grabbed Sybil's arms and nodded "then you'd better go ahead and do it."

"Please make sure Mama, Papa, and Granny know that no matter what happens that I love them and I hope they'll come around to understanding why this is my choice," Sybil asked her sister.

Mary cracked a faint smile. "Funny how they always label me the family iconoclast, but you've always been the rebel amongst us," Mary reminded her.

"Me?" Sybil pointed her hand to herself and laughed at her sister's suggestion—a much needed dose of humor after last night's announcement debacle. "You can't be serious?"

"Oh I'm quite serious. You were the adventurer when we were children. You always found the best hiding places—remember Granny's roses. You were the one of us three who dreamt of travelling to far off lands. You're the suffragette. You bit the bullet and became a nurse. All in all, wherever you end up you'll be all right I think—even married to the chauffeur," Mary relented and smiled assuredly at Sybil. "Although I'm not so sure about our parents. Give them some time—a very _long_ time," Mary warned as she walked toward the door.

"Thank you for at least understanding. It's a small victory," Sybil told Mary—grateful to at least have made some headway in the family.

But everything was still a mess and she couldn't stop thinking about Branson and his travails. She sat down at her writing desk—should she write him note? How would she find him without raising alarms in the house?

* * *

><p>For one last time, Branson scanned the large room now empty of his belongings. He dropped the key on the table, then grabbed his two bags and firmly closed the door of the cottage. He was finally leaving the abode that had been his home for the past six years—it was however time to move on. He found some solace in the fact that in a few days he wasn't going to be leaving Yorkshire alone.<p>

Walking up the drive he tried to take measure of his state of mind, especially in light of what had transpired with the staff a half hour before. As he had come into the servant's hall, Anna had shown great compassion toward what he and Sybil had endured with her family last night. He greatly appreciated her kind words. He had barely had a chance to announce their engagement to his colleagues, before Mr. Carson had barreled into the room and summarily banished him from Downton.

In truth, he had never seen Mr. Carson so enraged—unwilling to hear his side of the story. Even after he had tried to douse General Strutt, the butler still heard him out. But not this time, Mr. Carson was beyond reason. This morning, Mr. Carson's reprimand was peppered with an array of emotions—anger, betrayal, and of course, disappointment. The loyal head servant's unwavering dedication to safeguarding the social strictures that governed the household made his censure even more difficult to rebut.

"_Shame?" Why would he be ashamed?_ What he felt for Sybil was not a disgrace nor was it in any way dishonorable, at least from his perspective. He did not believe that his abiding love for Sybil should be valued any less because he was not from her social class. She certainly respected the legitimacy of his feelings enough to happily accept his proposal of marriage. And as he defended himself to Mr. Carson, he felt privileged to have earned her love and trust in return.

In the aftermath of their revelation, he was beginning to realize that hiding their engagement and eloping would have validated that their love was somehow shameful. Being forthright with her family and the staff was the honorable thing to do—as per Lady Mary's surprisingly sage advice. And no matter the degree of anger and rancor their news may have stirred up amongst Downton's denizens, he and Sybil were both proud of their commitment and were publically willing to say so.

But he did regret causing Mr. Carson any distress—especially given the butler's bouts of illness during the war brought on by the stress of running the household on a skeleton staff. He also regretted disappointing the man who had given him the opportunity to work in a well-paid position in an exceptionally well-run household. After all Mr. Carson could have easily dismissed him without a reference because of his failed wartime protest, but instead he had only received a stern warning and was allowed to remain in his position. For that he had been truly grateful to the older man. And although they regularly found themselves on opposite sides of the political and social divide, he valued that Mr. Carson listened thoughtfully to his opinions and robustly debated the news of the day on a daily basis. And on that score, he was sorry for hurting someone he may have called a friend in a different social context.

As he walked toward the out buildings he could see Thomas and Miss O'Brien standing near the servant's entrance. _Do those chimneys ever cease belching smoke and spewing vitriol, _he wondered to himself. He contemplated avoiding their likely sneers and snide remarks by veering behind one of the storehouses, but decided to plough ahead and ignore whatever they might throw in his way.

"Well now who have we here?" Thomas sarcastically commented to his partner-in-many-a-crime. "If it isn't the man who fancies himself Lord of the Manor. All those grand speeches about social equality and fairness for the common man; looks like the socialist turns out to be nothing but a social climber," Thomas lobbed the first accusation as the unemployed footman took a long drag from his cigarette.

Then Miss O'Brien chimed in, "You should know her Ladyship was beside herself morning—pale as a sheet she was, barely ate her breakfast. Some nerve you've got hurting her like that."

Over the years he had tried whenever possible to defuse the tension these two troublemakers sowed amongst the other staff. He knew of the difficulties a while back that they had caused Mr. Bates with their lies and schemes. He was almost out of their sphere of influence and decided not to get agitated by their provocations. He continued on his way.

"Off you go then, the sooner the better—as I see it. But don't imagine yourself better than us," Miss O'Brien dug in her teeth one last time. "Her Ladyship will be heartbroken by your stealing her youngest. How dare you drag Lady Sybil down into the muck with you? Such a sweet thing that one; she's has clearly come under the influence of a man with little to no morals who will sully her reputation forever," the lady's maid rendered her judgment underwritten by a strong dose of contempt.

While he could certainly endure their nastiness, Sybil did not warrant such cruelty. And he did not want any of their malice to reach her ears. So he stopped, dropped his bags, and turned around. "As long as she is at Downton you will treat Lady Sybil with the respect she deserves."

"Oh that's rich coming from you," Thomas laughed. "Cozying up behind the garage with his Lordship's daughter no doubt and you're lecturing me on respect."

"You will not speak of her in that manner," he warned Thomas—especially because for years he had shown nothing but respect for Sybil's reputation and her wishes.

"Or what will you do?" Thomas threatened as he tossed then snuffed out his cigarette.

William had already slugged the former first footman a few years ago and he was now of a mind to finish the job. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his already ragged emotional state. He concluded wisely that it would be best not to cause any more trouble for Mr. Carson or for Sybil. So he decided instead to back down.

Not wanting the dastardly duo to believe that they had had the final word, he offered advice to his former colleagues: "Both of you think what you will, but Lady Sybil has made her choice and you'll all have to get used to it. And you're right Miss O'Brien, I'm no better than you and those upstairs are no better than us. You may not feel it just yet in this remote corner of Yorkshire, but the world has moved on. You'll no doubt continue your scheming, but you're going to find the walls of deceit closing in. Your little cell will get more and more crowded. And before you know it you'll be stepping on each other to climb out of the hell you will have created. Now, if you will pardon me I'll be on my way." He picked up his bags and continued on his journey to the village.

* * *

><p>Sybil sat in the small library with a book in her lap, but she couldn't concentrate on a word of her novel. She massaged her temples and wondered what to do next. After Mary's impromptu visit, she had managed to avoid seeing anyone else in her family thus far today.<p>

"Lady Sybil," Anna spoke quietly.

Lost in her thoughts, she was startled by the voice, "Yes, Anna what is it?"

"I've news."

"Yes?"

"About Mr. Branson," Anna informed her.

Sybil put her book down and stood up. "What has happened? Tell me please," she pleaded for any word of her beloved.

"As you can imagine it didn't go well this morning for him I'm afraid. Mr. Carson was very angry—beyond all reason."

"Oh no," Sybil gasped as she brought her hand to her mouth.

"Mr. Branson left the servant's hall about an hour ago. I suspect he's not quite off the grounds yet."

"Things have been in such disarray after last night, we've not had an opportunity to speak. Did he by chance say where he was headed?"

"Yes milady. That is why I came to find you. He said he was taking a room at the Grantham Arms. I thought you should know," Anna informed her.

"Thank you, thank you! I was beside myself with worry," she replied to this news with an urgent tone in her voice, but she was nonetheless relieved to know what had happened this morning.

"You're welcome milady. As I told Mr. Branson I'm sorry it didn't go smoothly for you two last night," Anna candidly told Sybil.

"Thank you for understanding; it means a lot to both of us," she said grateful that at least one other person recognized that they had every right to be married. The head housemaid quietly vacated the library. Sybil looked out of the window onto the vast stretch of grass in front of the large house. She knew what she needed to do next.

* * *

><p>Pulling her coat tightly around her in the cool midday air, she darted out of the front door. If she made a straight line across the estate, she could hopefully intercept him before he made it off the property. She had never run with such conviction, but her future stood in the balance. She raced across the lawn, passed the temple, and eventually cut through the groves of trees that merged into the estate's forest. After about fifteen minutes, she could see the large gothic gate in the distance and knew that the road wound through this wooded part of the estate.<p>

She finally made it to her destination and waited a short while to see if he had yet to pass by. She caught her breath as she leaned against the stone pillar. And indeed in less than three minutes she saw the figure of a man in a grey jacket and black cap who carried two bags come around the bend in the road. As he approached she waved and yelled his name, "Tom! It's me."

His mind was racing through the events of the past twenty-four hours when he thought he heard his name being called. He looked toward the large gate and was shocked to discern Sybil waving at him from the estate's main entrance. He ran toward her. He took off his cap, put down his bags, and drew her into a tight embrace. "How ever did you find me?"

"Anna told me you had left Downton on your way to the Grantham Arms," she revealed as she too wrapped her arms tightly around him—as if letting go meant she would plummet into the murky depths of the ocean.

"It doesn't matter—you're here," he joyously whispered into her ear.

They pulled out of their embrace. He noticed that she was flush, "you cheeks are red, are you all right?"

"I ran like I had the devil in me to catch you—that's all," she beamed up at him. "I wanted to make sure you were all right after what I knew would be a difficult morning—having to leave what has been your home for all these years."

"Last night," he began, "your family more or less disowned you and you're worried about me. God, I must be the most fortunate man in the world to have found a woman with a heart such as yours!" He kissed her tenderly.

When the two lovers drew apart, they walked into the woods and found a fallen tree on which to sit.

"I'm fine, though Mr. Carson delivered a stern uncompromising dismissal," Branson updated her. "As far as he's concerned I've broken all the sacred rules of service and there was nothing I could say that would persuade him otherwise."

"I'm sorry you had to leave Downton under unpleasant circumstances."

"I'll survive. It's just that Mr. Carson doesn't understand us and never will I suppose."

"He's like Papa—but that's their world, not ours."

"And what about you, did your mother or father confront you again?"

"No thankfully I've managed to avoid them—even missed breakfast. Mary came by my room to rally one last time to persuade me not to marry you."

"Did she?"

"I think she finally realized that it was no use, she even came around to accepting the notion that we will be married."

"I'm happy for you that at least one person in your family isn't putting up barriers to your happiness."

"Mind you I don't think she likes the idea, but she's not fighting me anymore. And Anna seems to be on our side too."

"Yes I know and I'm grateful that she told you where I was headed. I wanted to send you a note, but I didn't want to draw Anna into our problems. I was going to telephone you from the Grantham Arms this afternoon."

"Yesterday stirred up such storm we didn't get a chance to confirm our plans."

"We couldn't have planned for last night."

"What shall we do next?" she asked.

"Let's see," he considered their options. "If Mr. Matthew marries on Saturday why don't we leave here on Monday, Tuesday at the latest? Can you do that?"

"I'd go with you right now if I could. Everything I need is here right in front of me," she lovingly told him.

"For me too," he smiled and gently stroked her cheek with his hand. She made him happier than anything or anyone. "But as I said last night we're not going to run. I'm not ashamed of my love for you. I'm glad it's all finally out in the open. Everyone knows that we are committed to being married, to building a life and a family together."

Seeing him had eased the anxiety resulting from the explosive confrontation with her family. She could feel her determination returning. "I'll telephone you tomorrow at the Grantham Arms and meet you in the village. We have much to plan for our trip, the wedding, and our life in Dublin," she confidently responded. "I'd best get back. I believe I will even attend dinner this evening. They'll all be there—they're not going make me feel as if what we're doing is wrong."

"Well said," he offered as he kissed her hands. He stood up and retrieved up his bags. She looped her arm through his as they walked back to the gate. Once there, they said their goodbyes and headed off in opposite directions.

* * *

><p>He was relieved to have seen her again. Her voice, the blue of her eyes, the slight scent of violets—her overall presence stirred his heart with great joy. A sense of calm overtook the chaos of the past day. He breathed in the fresh spring air as he made his way down the road. As he approached the village square, an autobus picked up and dropped off travelers. He walked across the square and came face to face with Mrs. Hughes amidst the discharged passengers. She was surprised to encounter him, perhaps even a little confused, since she was used to seeing him in his dark green chauffeur's uniform. "Mr. Branson is that you?" the housekeeper inquired in her now quite faded Scottish brogue.<p>

He stopped and took off his cap, "Indeed it is Mrs. Hughes."

"My word, I suppose now I know why you had a lot on your mind as of late," Mrs. Hughes greeted him as she looked down at his bags. "I guess you've left Downton for good then?"

"Yes, I'm on my way to the Grantham Arms."

"I'm sure you've already gotten an ear full from Mr. Carson. So I'll not lecture you any further—you're not in the employ of Lord Grantham anymore," Mrs. Hughes gracefully addressed what she knew had been an unpleasant dismissal earlier that day.

"No, I'm not. I'll be here a few more days until Lady Sybil joins me to go to Dublin. I've found a good position at a newspaper there."

"I see," she paused. "You know being in charge of a big household very little gets by me. Years ago I could see you were quite smitten with Lord and Lady Grantham's youngest daughter. At the time I thought it was a harmless crush—she was just a girl learning about the world and it couldn't possibly go any further than that. If you recall I even warned you'd ended up with a broken heart and that you'd be let go," she reminded him. "Well now I suppose I was partially right about that," she admitted tilting her head slightly and raising her brows.

"Mrs. Hughes I want you to know I have the utmost respect for you and Mr. Carson. You've always been fair with me. And I didn't mean to be secretive—it's a very difficult situation that we're trying to resolve as best we can."

"I don't approve of the deception. I've seen it many times—lying only leads to a heap of trouble," she sternly told him. "You've taken everything that keeps Downton in its place and given it a good shake. You two are going to have tough time in the long run, make no mistake about that."

"Yes you're right it's not going to be easy. We're both well aware of that."

"But over the years, you've been a conscientious worker—save trying to embarrass the general—so I'll wish you well in your future endeavors."

"I appreciate that."

"Honestly, between you and me," she looked around and lowered her voice. "I think you've at least picked the best of the lot. From childhood Lady Sybil always did things her way, so I'm not surprised she's chosen this path, in spite of her parent's wishes. So you take good care of her."

"I'll cherish her all the days of my life. Good day Mrs. Hughes and thank you," he nodded and went on his way.

He was expecting another upbraiding and therefore was surprised by Mrs. Hughes's candor. As he arrived at the door of the Grantham Arms, he was pleased that some people acknowledged their shared humanity and that no one in this world was better than anyone else.

* * *

><p>Waiting to join her family for dinner, Sybil sat in the main library reading her book. Shortly after she had returned from intercepting Branson in the early afternoon, Robert followed by Violet had cornered her upstairs. Buoyed by her encounter at the gate, she assertively confronted her father's threats by confirming that she didn't need his approval or his money to get married. She was not going to be cowed by anyone.<p>

"Oh there you are," Cousin Isobel remarked as she strolled into the library. "I was wondering where you were hiding."

"I suppose I am in hiding. I couldn't very well sit in the drawing room making light conversation about this and that. Everyone's still reeling over my engagement announcement last night. It would be like returning to the scene of the crime."

"Indeed, Matthew told me the news when he returned last night. Didn't go well it sounds?"

"No it didn't. It was quite painful."

"As these things often are when you disappoint a parent."

"Please know I didn't mean to spoil Matthew and Lavinia's affair," Sybil offered apologetically.

Isobel sat down on the couch. She reached over and placed her hand on Sybil's, "No worries—this wedding is such a big to do, I'm somewhat tired of the fanfare quite frankly. I mean really does anyone need so many gaudy pieces of crystal?"

Sybil laughed at Isobel's assessment, then listened intently not sure of what her cousin was going to say next. Just in case, she braced herself for another round of explanations and justifications.

"Listen. I just want to tell you that you've got more pluck than anyone else in this family," Isobel revealed. "You're moving the Crawleys into the modern age and I admire you for that."

Sybil was completely surprised by her cousin's frank disclosure. "I appreciate your vote of confidence, although no one else in the family agrees with you that my marriage to Tom is a good idea. They probably all think I've gone quite mad. Mary at least has quieted down about her objections."

"Well I believe you've found a lovely man to marry," Isobel assured her.

"I'm glad you think so," Sybil replied. It warmed her heart deeply to hear Isobel's regard for her fiancé.

"Branson's a good man, with a keen sense of right and wrong. And that's what you want," Isobel instructed her. "I should know, I married one and no amount of money can guarantee that someone is decent and honorable. I wish some in the family understood that."

Overjoyed, Sybil hugged her cousin. Finally someone in the family recognized that she had every right to marry the man she loved.

"Now how about we go and show them what real Crawley women are about," Isobel rallied. The two cousins walked arm and arm into the dining room.

It had been the difficult day, but like the cycles of the weather—it can be said that calm also follows the storm.


	14. Love Me?

_ At last this final chapter plugs the remaining holes and cracks in this ship. Bon voyage to our happy couple…Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 14 – Love Me?<p>

Branson had finished his breakfast in the dining room of the Grantham Inn. Because the innkeeper Mr. Hawkins was overseeing noisy repairs to the reception area he had returned upstairs to his modest lodgings to await news from Sybil. He took off his jacket, vest, and tie and settled into a chair to read. The sound words in his well-worn copy of _Leaves from a Prison Diary _were a salve to sooth his surly mood. He was still baffled and annoyed by the events that had transpired in his room the day before. _Did Lord Grantham really believe that his marriage to Sybil had some monetary equivalent; that money meant more to him than his love and devotion to his daughter? To those who held the nation's great wealth was there anything in the world that could not be quantified? Does his class really think that no one else possessed loyalty or honor?_

Once her father abandoned the failed mission to buy him off, he decided to write down his thoughts in his journal. After careful review of the demeaning proposition, Branson concluded that whether they inherited great estates or made fortunes in manufacturing or trade, many powerful men lacked a basic sense of empathy and compassion (although he considered her father to be fairer than most of his ilk). To those scions like Lord Grantham or self-made men like Richard Carlisle, the men and women who toiled beneath them could be seen at times as mere commodities to be sold, traded, or cast-off—certainly the bloody carnage from the war verified the lengths to which human beings could be reduced to abstract ranks and numbers. With these thoughts swirling in his mind, he crafted the beginnings of an essay for the first issue of the _Worker's Republic._

The fact that yesterday Lord Grantham left Downton Abbey and his wife's sick bed to pay him a visit (or rather try to pay him off) suggested that Lady Grantham had contracted a mild case of influenza. He presumed Sybil would telephone to update him on her mother's condition and make arrangements to meet later in the afternoon. Unlike her work with the war wounded, administering amidst a pandemic meant that she too was in danger. Thus, he worried about her vulnerability.

While he waited, he scribbled away in his journal. He intermittently jotted down his thoughts then leafed through his book until this rhythm was interrupted by a faint knock. He presumed it was Mrs. Hawkins conveying a message from Sybil. He swiftly opened the door. To his surprise stood Sybil still dressed in her nurse's uniform.

* * *

><p>"Come in," he immediately reached out to draw her into the room. He shut the door.<p>

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I, I don't know if…I should have come up," she rambled. "No one stopped me downstairs, I knocked on the first door," she barely got out. "I'm so tir..."

He took her into his arms and held her close. He could feel her body melt into his. It was as if his strength was the only thing holding her up. "It's fine," he comforted her. "You're here with me and that's all that matters."

He took her face into his hands. Her skin was starkly pale and she appeared to have had very little sleep—dark circles appeared around her usually bright eyes. He helped her out of her coat and hat. He walked her over to the bed and sat her down. He kneeled in front of her.

"Tell me," he asked.

"I went for a walk to get some air and somehow ended up here. I've been up with Mama most of the night," she said. Her gaze shot past him and out of the window, "I needed to get away from that house, its rooms are filled with grief, with death."

"How's her Ladyship, she's not worse is she?" he asked with urgency.

"It looked bleak for a while yesterday afternoon, but she rallied back. No, Mama is fine."

"That's good," he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Mr. Carson too—thank goodness. No it's Lavinia or rather was…" she said cryptically.

"Was? What happened to Miss Swire?"

"She's gone," Sybil answered with her voice hollowing out, as if her soul had been drained of all emotion.

"How can that be?"

"Died last night."

"She's to be married to Mr. Matthew the day after tomorrow."

"Poor Cousin Matthew, he's suffered quite a blow."

"But she was so young."

She continued to stare at the verdant boughs of the large tree outside of the inn's window, "Lavinia was doing just fine. The fever appeared to have broken, the color returning to her cheeks. She even sat up to converse with Matthew and Cousin Isobel about postponing the wedding. I left to empty a pan and check on Mama, but by the time I came back she suddenly took a turn for the worse."

"Nothing could be done then?"

"I did everything I could. There was nothing I or anyone else could do to save her," she bemoaned and looked back at him in need of understanding.

"I'm sure you tried your best," he said raising his hand to her cheek to calm her anxiousness.

"I watched the life drain from her. So sad."

"I'm sorry. I feel for Mr. Matthew. To lose someone you were going to wed—how terrible," he offered his sympathy while also reflecting on the prospect of losing his one true love. He looked her over to make sure she hadn't contracted anything while nursing the sick and dying. "Do you feel feverish? Any chills?"

"No, I'm quite alright I think," she replied and took in a deep breath. "Just exhausted. I've not slept in two days," she revealed.

"Listen, first you must eat something. I think a cup of tea is in order. I'm going to go downstairs and have Mrs. Hawkins prepare a plate," he said holding her hands. "I'll be right back," he assured her.

Sybil nodded.

He stood up and left the room. He was deeply worried, he had never seen her this spent.

* * *

><p>He returned about twenty minutes later carrying a large tray. Looking down at its savory offerings, he announced: "Mrs. Hawkins wondered why I was still hungry after a hearty breakfast. I told her it's a healthy Irishman's appetite she's feeding. I've got a plate of cheeses, some ham and..." but before he could finish he noticed that Sybil had curled up and fallen fast asleep on the bed. He put the tray down on the side table and went to fetch a blanket. As he went to place it over her, he realized she was still wearing her shoes. She must have been too tired to take them off. He put the blanket at the end of the bed and reached down to untie her shoes. He slowly slid off her right one, then the left. She did not stir. He gently draped the blanket over her. Her face registered utter exhaustion, her uniform disheveled, but to his eyes she appeared angelic as she slumbered. He bent over and softly kissed her lips. "Sleep my dearest," he whispered.<p>

He sat down in the side chair and picked up his book. He glanced up over its pages to watch the rise and fall of her breath. He was pleased that she was getting much needed rest. The tumultuous string of events of the past week—their announcement, his departure, the bickering with her family, and now nursing those succumbing to this wave of influenza—had taken a visible toll on her. When she awoke, he would make sure she ate something to regain her strength. He did not want her contracting this seemingly deadly illness because she had become fatigued helping others. He would take care of her. Everything he wanted in life lay before him on that bed.

Poor Matthew, to lose the person you had planned to spend your life with must be soul shattering. He couldn't imagine losing Sybil to sickness or some random accident. He couldn't imagine life without her smile lifting his spirits, her familiar voice inquiring about the current state of politics, or her stubbornness stoking his ire. She was his future and he had pledged to spend his life making her happy.

After about an hour, she suddenly called out in her sleep, "No, don't!" Her body writhed and turned. "No don't leave, please don't," she pleaded.

He went over to the bed to try and calm her down. He grasped her shoulders and spoke softly: "Sybil you're having a bad dream."

"No don't leave, please don't," she begged again as her head continued to move back and forth. Although she was still entranced in her dream, she sensed his presence and grabbed his hand.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. "I'm here," he responded as he gently caressed her hand to allay her fears.

She grasped his hand even more tightly and begged, "Tom, don't leave me."

"I'm here," he said again but his words seemed to have no effect in calming her. She still appeared to be agitated by her dream. He removed his shoes and decided to ease next to her on the small bed. He slid his arm around her. "I'll always be with you," he whispered as she nestled her head into his shoulder. She draped her arm over his chest. Her breathing became more regular and after about five minutes she drifted off into a deep sleep.

* * *

><p>Upon stirring from her slumber, her body shuddered against his and unleashed a flood of dammed emotions. She was crying.<p>

"Shhh, I'm still here," he said as he tightened his grip around her and drew her closer. Her arm wrapped tightly around his chest.

"I'm so tired of fighting—the war, with my family," she confessed through her tears, "I'm so tired of it all."

"I know," he replied rubbing her arm.

"Lavinia died even though I fought to save her."

"You did what you could for her. Remember you helped your mother, you've helped so many others," he replied trying to bolster her somber mood.

"I can't forget the faces of all those poor soldiers who died at the hospital, countless friends who were killed in battle, now this sickness has ravaged everything I hold dear!" she sobbed passionately.

He turned on his side to face her and looked into her eyes: "God you've been through so much. I can see what it's done to you. But the hurting will stop, the pain will ease, I promise." He gently stroked her tear stained cheek with his hand.

"I don't know how much more I can take!" she cried desperately.

She continued to sob and he pulled her close. He waited for her to finally release all the pent up anguish. "We will change things, we'll make it better—together," he vowed as he took her hand and held it to his chest over his heart.

"Yes we will, I think we already have," she told him as her tears slowed to a trickle.

He nodded.

"I'm sorry to be such a mess," she apologized for her teary emotional outburst.

"_My_ beautiful mess," he teased as he wiped away a tear streaming down her cheek.

She finally mustered a faint smile "indeed I'm yours, forever."

His finger gently traced her lips. She closed her eyes.

She reached her hand around his neck and uttered sweetly, "my love for you is forever."

They leaned in to kiss and their arms entwined around the other's body.

At first, their lips met in chaste pecks. Slowly flares of desire began to ignite longer more passionate kisses. After a few minutes they pulled away unsure of how to act upon these new fiery emotions.

He had shone a ray of hope onto her dark moment of despair. She realized it was her love for him that would guide her through life's challenges. She now understood the depths of such a profound attachment to another human soul and she needed to physically feel her connection to him. She began to unbutton the front of his shirt. Her hand slipped inside to the feel the warmth of his skin and began to gently knead the taut muscular curves of his chest.

He was surprised by her intimate gesture, but he too was moved by the smoldering passion drawing them closer. He bit his lip and relaxed into the waves of pleasure arising from her caresses. "Ahhhh," he released. He slowly slipped off his shirt.

In the afternoon light, she beheld the magnificence of his nude torso—one she had only imagined under the thick layers of his chauffeur's uniform. Her hands went around his neck and she drew him into another—this time hungry kiss.

His hand stroked the gentle curvature of her small waist through the soft fabric her uniform. He too wanted to be closer. His fingers undid the buttons down the front of her frock one by one. She shimmied out of her dress then peeled off her brassiere. She lay next to him in her chemise and bloomers.

Enticed by the exquisiteness of her almost nude form, he drew her supple body into an embrace and breathed in the flowery scent of her skin. Her lips gently grazed his bare shoulder. Each found intense pleasure in the touch of skin against skin after months and years of being separated by the social mores that forbid any form of physical contact between the "lady" and the "chauffeur." Her arms grasped his back and she tightened her hold to absorb the blissful heat of his body.

He could feel his passion stirring for her. He kissed the small arc of her shoulder and worked his way across her lower neck and down her body. Through the thin sheath of her cotton undergarments, his lips tickled the roundness of her breasts. He could feel her body suddenly tense and she let out a low gasp, "Yeesss, Tom."

"Yes what my love?" he whispered in her ear as his hand traced light circles across her upper arm.

"Love me," she asked enraptured by the joy of their sensual dance as a tingly feeling swept through her from head to toe.

"With all my heart," he vowed to her. She shifted onto her back. He slowly climbed atop her and pressed his body into hers. Her legs clung to his trousers in response to the pleasure of their growing intimacy. His hand gently stroked her thighs. Under his weight, her desire intensified as his hands moved underneath her chemise. Their mouths parted to drink in the ecstasy that blotted out all of the pain, anger, and difficulties. Each reveled in the intense power of their deep affection and wanted to make love then and there.

Suddenly they both stopped. He rolled off of her. They panted heavily trying to catch their breath and bearings. He took her hand and placed it on his chest. Their fingers interlaced. She put her forearm over her eyes. Both recognized in the moment of their frenzied passion that perhaps this act of love would only add to their challenges not help.

"Better…" he began.

"…to wait," she finished his sentence.

He raised her hand to his lips. And she turned toward his body again and he slipped his arm around her. She pulled the blanket over them. They remained silent while watching the shadows of the trees dance across the wall in the warm light of the late spring afternoon.

* * *

><p>After about an hour, he kissed her forehead and observed: "I think I just felt your stomach grumble."<p>

"I believe you did," she confessed.

"I suspect its close to four, you must eat something," he suggested as he pulled himself up to reach down and pick up his shirt.

"I suppose I should," she grinned as she watched him put on his shirt. His physical beauty matched the intensity of his kind heart and she was in love with him more than ever. She sat up and stretched. She craned her neck to see what was on the tray he had brought up.

He went over to fetch the wooden tray from the side table. He came back and sat it on the bed. "I'm afraid your tea has gone cold. I can get another pot if you wish?"

"No need to bother Mrs. Hawkins. Some water will do just fine."

He sat on the other end of the bed. He picked up the knife and cut a piece of bread. He arranged a plate of cheese, sausage and meats and handed it to her.

"Thank you, you take such good care of me."

"It's my pleasure. I want to make sure you keep up your strength."

"I'll be fine—now that I'm with you."

"Taking care of others, I think you've forgotten to take care of yourself. I couldn't bear to lose you."

She took a bite of cheese and drew her knees to her chest. She agreed, "I couldn't lose you either. I dreamt you became sick and that you were slipping away like that poor officer I remembered at York whose eyes were deep blue like yours—except there was nothing I could do."

"You had a bad dream. I think the stress of the past few weeks has been more difficult than either of us realized."

"I hadn't realized how tired I'd become from all that's happened recently," she said.

"Don't look back, think ahead to happy times. We're soon to be in Dublin, to be married, and have a home of our own."

She reached out and took his hand. "A home of our own—I'll savor that thought. Oh and a bedroom of our own too," she saucily replied as she bit a sliver of sausage.

"Why Lady Sybil I had no idea you harbored such fantasies!" he teased.

"Only of you, my love," she assured him as he fed her a slice of spiced cake. Her constitution already seemed revived by the sleep and a rosy tint had returned to her formerly pallid cheeks.

She was famished and plowed through the food he had brought up for her. While she ate, he told her about her father's failed attempt at bribery. He explained the essay he was writing inspired by the experience and she shared her thoughts on the subject. She also updated him on her father and grandmother's claim that this attachment was a passing fancy of youth. Undeterred by the interference, they spent the rest of the afternoon planning their trip to Dublin.

He cleared the afternoon repast from the bed and she got up and put back on her uniform and shoes. She went to the small round mirror to tidy her hair. He took the tray back downstairs to spy if the reception area was clear and the dining room vacant of guests. When he returned he told her it was fine to leave and he would meet her downstairs as if she had just arrived to meet him.

* * *

><p>It was early evening as they walked back through the village to Downton. Along the way they continued to discuss the logistics and challenges of future work, lodgings, and his family in Ireland. The walk, fresh air, and good company brought her out of her funk. Eventually, they arrived at the wrought iron gate near the front entrance of large neo-gothic residence.<p>

She turned toward him. "I'm sure tomorrow there will still be much to do to inform all the wedding guests and prepare for the funeral—it's odd how quickly events can turn from happy to sad. Matthew must be in agony," she lamented.

"It will take time, but I'm sure he'll love again," he replied.

"I hope so—Mary still cares for him I'm certain."

"Then perhaps they'll find each other," he said taking both her hands.

"I will help Mama and Cousin Isobel in the morning. Afterwards, I'll come find you at the inn in the afternoon."

"I'll look for you then. Perhaps we'll do proper tea in the dining room," he suggested.

"Yes, proper tea in the dining room—best not to tempt fate twice?"

"Not just yet!" he heartily agreed and raised a brow.

"On Monday will you promise to come to the church with me for Lavinia's funeral?" she asked.

"Do you think it wise to provoke your parents' anger at such a difficult moment for the family?"

"I need you by my side—you're my strength. They'll just have to get used to your being my husband," she insisted as her hand stroked his cheek.

"Sybil…" he prodded his headstrong love to think rather than react and dig in her heels.

"But I see what you mean. Perhaps you can meet me in the churchyard after the interment?"

"I will do that then. I think it's the least confrontational route and I don't want you to go through the whole day alone."

"Thank you, for everything you did today," she blushed as she recalled their newfound intimacy.

"Sleep well and dream of our future," he tenderly kissed her goodbye.

"Goodnight," she bid her love. She stood at the gate and watched him until he disappeared around the bend in the drive. The afternoon with him had revived her spirits—physically and emotionally. Indeed, he had become her strength and she could depend upon him no matter what. He was her family now and forever.

* * *

><p>As the attendees began to disperse, he waited for her just inside gate of the churchyard. Soon she approached donning her mourning attire. In light of the grim circumstances, she was relieved to see him.<p>

"How were the services?" he asked of the funeral.

"Horribly sad if you can imagine. I think Matthew's putting on a good show for all of us. Clearly it's not been easy," she replied. "But I'm glad you're here."

"I'm here for you," he smiled and took her hand to help ease her grief. They strolled further into the churchyard. And were met by Anna and Bates. Branson congratulated them on their recent marriage. Anna told them that life puts challenges in your way and that the best way to overcome such impediments is together. Anna firmly shook Branson's hand and wished them both well. He was pleased that Anna seemed supportive of Sybil's choice to marry him.

As they proceeded further up the path, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes came toward them no doubt heading back to Downton.

Branson had not seen either the butler or housekeeper since the day he vacated his position almost one week earlier. It was clearly going to be an awkward encounter.

Sybil hooked her arm into Branson's. "Mr. Carson, its nice to see you in good health again," Sybil began deciding to speak first to avert any unpleasantness.

"Thank you for inquiring _Lady Sybil_," Mr. Carson replied with special emphasis on her title. "Not quite in the pink, but certainly getting there."

'Be careful not to over exert yourself," she advised. "Have Pratt drive you back if need be."

"I shall milady. The air and walk will do me good," the older man proudly puffed up his chest.

Branson nodded politely. Mr. Carson nodded in return, but did not speak and hurried past them to continue on his journey home. Mrs. Hughes, however, stopped to greet the couple: "Lady Sybil, Mr. Branson."

"Mrs. Hughes you're looking well," Branson complimented her.

"About as well as can be expected under such circumstances with half the staff still knocked off their feet and this sad business of Miss Swire."

"Indeed tis quite tragic," Branson replied.

"I suspect you two will be leaving us soon?" Mrs. Hughes asked politely.

"Very soon, Mrs. Hughes. Day after tomorrow to be exact," Sybil smiled looking over at him.

"Well then. I doubt I'll see you again before you depart Mr. Branson. Safe journey," the fair-minded housekeeper bid him farewell.

"Thank you Mrs. Hughes, best wishes to you too," he replied.

"Milady," Mrs. Hughes offered and hastened her gait to catch up with her comrade-in-arms.

"Thank you for mediating what could have been a difficult situation with Mr. Carson. I appreciate your quick thinking."

"Oh, Carson's much like Papa—very proud and very stubborn. But he'll come round, as they all will," she spoke optimistically. They began to discuss the specifics of the services when Lord Grantham approached them. This was clearly going to be a more difficult encounter—or so they initially thought.

* * *

><p>Grasping what it meant to be leaving her life of privilege behind helped her be judicious with what she packed on the day after Lavinia's funeral. She took only those things she would need right away along with a few precious mementos—photographs of her family and a small porcelain box, an heirloom from her grandmother on her tenth birthday. If there was anything else she needed Edith had generously promised to send it to her. After she finished gathering items and carefully folding clothes, she had filled three suitcases for her journey.<p>

Before she went to bed that night, she managed to find Anna who had just returned from visiting Mr. Bates still unfortunately in police custody. Even under the crushing weight of her husband's travails Anna offered her best wishes to Sybil and hoped she would find happiness with Tom. Sybil reassured her of Mr. Bates innocence and that they too would soon enjoy their own happy married life.

The morning of her departure, she ate breakfast with her parents—toast and tea was all she could manage. When done she walked through the great hall, Mrs. Patmore, who rarely ventured upstairs, approached and handed her a small basket. "Something for your trip, its for two" the head cook discreetly whispered.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. You're ever so kind," she expressed with heartfelt gratitude to the woman who had taught her the basics of cooking—skills that would soon be put to good use.

Mr. Carson retrieved her coat. She then made her farewells in front of the house. As the stalwart patriarch, Robert wished his daughter safe passage on her journey. She took comfort that her father's enduring love had at least prompted him to bestow his blessing, even though she still sensed that he had not completely thawed in his disapproval of her choice of husbands. Cora seemed dismayed to see her youngest fleeing the nest to live in a place so far away. Her mother's tearful embrace indicated she accepted that her daughter had ventured down a different path than the one she might have chosen for her, but as a mother she was nonetheless proud of her independence and accomplishments. Mary and Edith gave their not-so-little sister a kiss on the cheek and promised to try to make it over for the wedding. Lastly, Violet reminded her granddaughter that she should face any challenge with the grace and fortitude that is exemplary of her good breeding. "But of course, we shan't mention the unfortunate influence of your shall we say 'New World extraction,'" her grandmother pointedly added as she squeezed her hands.

Mr. Carson bid farewell as he personally opened the vehicle's door for her. The towncar pulled away from the sprawling neo-gothic estate and wound down the familiar drive to the village. She could not bring herself to look back. Unlike her trip to York, she would not be returning to Downton for quite sometime. Its rooms and grounds would no longer be the place that she called "home." However, she quickly filled the void with exhilarating thoughts of life in Dublin married to the man she loved who now waited for her at the railway station.

* * *

><p>He left his two bags with the porter on the platform and awaited her arrival. They agreed she would say her good-byes at Downton. This time she would be leaving her home but it would be a very different journey than the last one more than two years ago. Instead of sitting behind the wheel driving her to York, she would be by his side accompanying him by train and ferry to Dublin. It was the joyous outcome he dreamt of on the day at the training hospital when he first revealed his inner most desires. He took a deep breath of the crisp morning air; he felt giddy with anticipation.<p>

Pratt pulled the motorcar up to the station. Branson opened the rear door and held out his hand to help her out. "Thank you Edward. Take good care of yourself and my former charges," he bid his replacement who removed Sybil's suitcases then carried them to the platform.

"How was your morning?" he immediately inquired. "I hope it wasn't too difficult, perhaps I should have come for you."

"It was of course heart wrenching to be leaving them all," she informed him as her eyes met his.

"I'm sure they'll miss you equally as much," he lovingly assured her. "Any word on Mr. Bates?"

"No, none yet, I saw Anna last night she was crestfallen. I've asked Mary to keep us informed. Yet another tragedy unfolding."

"No doubt if there's a trial he'll prove his innocence. Your father will be firmly behind him, so I'm sure that counts for a lot," he tried to rally her spirits and was pleased that her father had accepted their forthcoming marriage—at least publically.

"Yes, Papa will do everything to help," she replied as she turned her head to look around village she'd known since she was a little girl. "I am sad to be leaving, but I feel it's time. You are my future and my place now is with you," she told him affectionately reaffirming her commitment to be married. She slid her arm through his and they walked to the platform to await the arrival of their train.

When the train pulled into the station, they climbed on board and found their compartment. He put their bags onto the empty rack. No other passengers had booked seats in the compartment for the next few stations.

She would no longer be traveling in the first class carriage, but it did not matter one bit to her as she found her seat near the window. He settled in to the seat next to her. She took off her gloves and placed her hand in his.

"What's in the basket?" he asked looking at the parcel on the floor next to her foot.

"It's from Mrs. Patmore. She prepared sandwiches for two. I think she was quite fond of your appetite," she giggled. Just then, the train lurched forward out of the station. "So this is it, we're on our way!" she exclaimed.

"Indeed we are," he leaned forward to look out of the window. "Sybil I can't tell you how happy I am that you're willing to take a chance on me," he told her as he squeezed her hand.

"Tom, it's not a gamble, we were meant to be together," she replied with a glorious smile. They leaned in to sweetly kiss.

Along their journey that day, he described to her the many facets of life in Dublin and the beauty of the surrounding county. They vigorously debated the likely outcomes of the news that women candidates might be running for parliament in both Ireland and England. She told him about the kind of world she envisioned for their children. With their hands interlocked, they also took pleasure in the silence between conversations and the fleeting scene as it unfolded from city to rolling fields and back again.

_*FIN*_

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for the many suggestions that pointed out where to find the holes in the story; a special thanks to Scarlet Court, Myrtis Violette, kaleidoscopiopia, and Harry and George for their helpful hints. I greatly appreciate all of the reviews and comments—they are fun to read and let me know that you appreciate (or not) my musings (or rather my distraction from getting my work done).<em>

_At some point, I plan to do a one shot follow up to this story [perhaps picking up where they left off in the Grantham Inn]. Keep your browsers peeled! _


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